


Dweebs of Destiny

by raven_aorla



Series: Celestials on Camera [4]
Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, The Sandman (Comics)
Genre: Crossover, Dark Comedy, Demon Shane Madej, Demonic Possession, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Limbo, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2020-10-29 14:55:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20798462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raven_aorla/pseuds/raven_aorla
Summary: The accent was wrong and the voice was frantic, yet accusatory. “It’s not my fault you hang out with so many God-blessed dweebs of destiny, Shemodai, where’s Ryan, I’m gonna be in so much trouble over this, you’re supposed to be with -”Gently enough not to do damage, Shane shoved the possessed body of Newton Pulsifer against the wall and pressed one hand over his throat. Not enough to choke him, only enough to make him feel uncomfortable and vulnerable. “You again, Ricky?”[You need to have readVideo Appeal, but other fics in the series are optional. It is BARELY a Sandman crossover, and no Sandman knowledge is required. All I did was borrow two angels from the comics more extensively than in previous cameos.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [This ficlet about a day in Ricky's life post-Video Appeal serves as an accidental bonus prologue to this.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19846399/chapters/49401764) The kernel of an idea I had for this story bloomed violently in my head after I posted that one. I can't move it without losing the comments, but I can't make this story part of Video Compilation because it's going to be too dang long. XD

No demon liked being summoned to a higher-ranking demon’s office without warning. But Rictus, known to his pals as Ricky (and by an odd twist of fate to several thousand humans as Ricky Goldsworth), got yanked from a pleasant card game during his precious time off, no less. He found himself in the middle of a chalk circle right in front of the polished desk of Malacoda, Count of Hell.

“I have a new task for you,” Malacoda said, gesturing for Ricky to get up. His suit and tie were in shades of charcoal this time, and the scorpion tail that curled over his head twitched at the word _task_. 

Ricky gulped and got to his feet. “Yes, lord?”

“There are acts of disrespect against me that have gone unpunished, and I will not continue to let that be the case. I’ve spent the past three years looking into certain loopholes. We can’t yank Ryan Bergara down here after he dies unless he earns a place here like any other mortal.” Malacoda’s eyes flickered like they were switching between two identical channels. “However, the two of you developed a unique bond. One I can use.”

“Did we, lord?” Ricky didn’t like where this was going. He’d had fun on Earth in the past, but being stuck in Ryan for as long as he had been was a major turnoff. Besides, he didn’t want to give Ryan’s powerful friends more reason to dislike him. Especially not Anthony J. “Motherfucker Who Turned Ligur Into a Smear On the Floor” Crowley. 

Malacoday chuckled. “I’ve developed a procedure. You’re going to re-possess him, but rather than him blacking out, his soul will take _your_ place down here. He’s insufficiently sinful for the Pit to accept, but with some fiddling and a few overrides I can make it so he spends the rest of his life in Limbo until Death releases him.” 

“I see.” Death couldn’t come down here, but as long as Ryan’s body was still on Earth, Heaven could grab him once their neutral intermediary had cut through the tangle. 

“Good. Meanwhile, you’re to ruin as much of his personal relationships and reputation as possible while maximizing his lifespan. If you could endeavor to hurt Shemodai particularly well, I’ll give you a reward when you come back.”

Ricky didn’t have a conscience, per se, but he was tied to properly-made obligations and vows as much as any other demon. He’d partly botched a deal on Ryan’s behalf, though made with Crowley, by accidentally asking a wish for himself from Malacoda that should have gone to Ryan. That meant he was not entirely free from debt. He didn’t want to get chucked into the Ditch for pissing off Malacoda, though…

Then he remembered the pep talk he’d given Ryan in the elevator up to Malacoda’s office. Remembered telling Ryan: _“But if I see you in Heck for some reason, I’ll go as easy on you as I can without getting caught slacking.”_

“Lord Malacoda, if he’s to be in He - I mean, Limbo - may I ask that he be assigned to my team to handle? They’d appreciate the honor, and they’re a damned capable squad, pun intended.” His second-in-command, Francesca, knew the story and would honor Ricky’s informal pledge. Ricky did his best to look innocently evil, rather than rebelliously evil. It was all in the eyebrows. 

“Very well. Proceed to the Possessions office.”

“May I tidy up my affairs first, please?” Banjo was going to steal all of Ricky’s poker chips at this rate. Unless Night-Night had already launched himself across the table and eaten them. 

The scorpion tail barb twitched again. “Don’t make me repeat myself, Rictus.”

****

“Of course there were demons involved in founding Google, don’t be silly,” Shane Madej said cheerfully, patting Newt on the back. Sara was getting a bunch of footage of the crowd and the entrance they were all drifting towards, since she was vlogging her visit to the tech expo for a Buzzfeed video. Right now her audio was off and there’d be music overlaid for this bit. Shane was there to hold the camera for her, appear occasionally to tantalize viewers, and otherwise support her. 

Newt wasn’t supposed to be there at all, but Ryan had already booked a weekend getaway with his girlfriend before the event organizers offered him a pass too in exchange for him mentioning some products on Instagram. Anathema had heard about it and convinced Ryan to give his pass to Newt instead, knowing her boyfriend would be beside himself with excitement. And he was. From the moment Anathema’s witch friend Jen helped him take a magic shortcut without having to get on a plane, he’d felt like a child again.

“If I really were my child-self right now, I’d be kicked out in minutes,” Newt told Shane.

Shane nodded, ushering both Newt and Sara forward and using his height and long reach to keep them from being swallowed by the hordes. “Right, because of your curse that turned out to be a Chekhov’s gun. Did you ever find out if God or Anathema’s ancestor did that to you?”

“I mean, if Agnes did it, wouldn’t that ultimately be God working in mysterious ways?” Newt hadn’t become a religious person after helping avert the Apocalypse, maybe because having faith felt weird when you’d already gone from not believing in much of anything to having seen absolute proof of not only God and Satan but witches and aliens. Though knowing Hell was real haunted him sometimes if he thought about it too hard, past the protective cloud of fuzz Adam Young had apparently wrapped around the minds of many of the people involved in that cosmic oopsie. (For example, Newt remembered talking to an alien, but what had they looked like and what had they said?)

“Don’t get him started on questions like that,” Sara said, shutting her camera off for now. 

Newt fiddled with the press pass on the lanyard around his neck. “Are you sure nobody’s going to notice that this has Ryan’s name on it?”

“Don’t worry, nobody’s going to bother you over it. I made it be yours,” Shane said.

“But how?”

Shane waved his hands like he was helpless to make himself any clearer. “I _made_ it be yours.”

This was the first time Newt had been around any of Anathema’s California friends without her around, and he felt out of his depth. Sara seemed to sense this and gave him a friendly smile. “It’s not that you look like him or will have people coming up to you thinking you’re him, but you’re, like, metaphysically Ryan today in a way that nobody will question. That’s all.”

“Okay?”

“I’ve learned not to overthink it when Shane flexes. Besides, you have more in common with Ryan than you think.”

“I do?” Obvious racial differences aside, Newt was secure enough in himself to acknowledge that Ryan Bergara was fit and gorgeous, and had created a successful show at the age of 25, and had comment sections full of adoring fans. Not that Newt needed anyone else to think he was special now that he had Anathema. It was just...different. 

Whatever Shane had done worked, and all got in without any issues. Beautiful computers and computer parts and cameras and experimental VR goggles and holographic displays and and and Newt felt like a child - a child who’d once not been allowed sugar but could now have it - set loose in a very shiny sweet shop.

“Don’t wander too far off though,” Shane said, sounding amused at his expression. “Anathema’s gonna hurt me if I misplace you somewhere.”

****

The Office of Pre-Planned Possessions was sixteen floors down and made Ricky fill out at least seven detailed forms. By the time he got to the one where he had to describe the possess-ee, he was bored and his hand was cramping around the quill pen that he kept having to dip in ink every few minutes. When were they going to update to ballpoint pens, or at least fountain ones?

_Heaven made him special so he’d do stuff they needed(?), but I was never clear on that. Has seen occult things very few others have. Dark hair, needs corrective lenses, startles easily but throws himself into danger out of curiosity and a sense of duty to humanity. Kinda cute I guess…_

Ricky was going to write more, but one of the techs told him the portal was ready and this was enough to go on. “It is? Are you sure?”

“We only really need to lock onto Shemodai’s energy, since they spend so much time together,” she said, grabbing the stack of papers from him.

“So I didn’t have to fill out all these?”

“Standard procedure.” 

Ricky groaned. “Now I’m glad to spend some time away from this place.”

****

Newton and Shane had been trying out hoverboards that actually hovered a few centimeters off the ground when Newton suddenly clutched at his stomach and almost fell off.

Shane reached out and steadied him. “You okay?”

“Feel odd,” Newton mumbled.

“Some people get motion sickness their first time,” the lady running the booth said.

While Shane didn’t feel much of a connection to Newton himself other than finding him reasonably agreeable, he thought of Newton as belonging to Anathema, and Shane owed Anathema for her part in helping Ryan rescue him three years ago. Shane waved at Sara, who was interviewing a guy at the adjacent booth, and used human-style couple’s telepathy to indicate that he was taking Newton somewhere else but would be back. 

They ended up in a one-stall unisex public bathroom. By this point Newton was almost doubled over and Shane had to support much of his weight. “This doesn’t feel like I’m going to be sick.”

“That’s not what it looks like, either.” It looked like a xenomorph was about to burst out of his stomach, but Shane had become sufficiently socialized to only make comments like that to Ryan.

Soon after they shut the door behind them, Newton went completely limp and unresponsive. Shane caught him before he hit the floor and lowered him gently to a recovery position, but couldn’t get him to respond to his name or to gentle taps on the cheek.

Then Newton opened his eyes. He saw Shane and cringed, then clearly suppressed the reaction. “What’s going on?” 

It wasn’t Newton’s accent. 

Shane clenched his jaw. He mustn’t overreact. There were multiple possible explanations. “We might need to get you to first aid, buddy.”

“I’m fine, I think it was probably low blood sugar or something.” Newton sat up, adjusted his glasses, and got to his feet. But when he saw himself in the mirror, he froze. “What the fuck.”

“Maybe not first aid, maybe a hospital,” Shane said. _Maybe not a hospital, maybe Aziraphale._

“I’m in so much fucking trouble, oh shit.”

That was enough confirmation. “You’re not Newton Pulsifer in there, are you?” Shane growled. 

The accent was wrong and the voice was frantic, yet accusatory. “It’s not my fault you hang out with so many God-blessed dweebs of destiny, Shemodai, where’s Ryan, I’m gonna be in so much trouble over this, you’re supposed to be with -”

Gently enough not to do damage, Shane shoved the possessed body of Newton Pulsifer against the wall and pressed one hand over his throat. Not enough to choke him, only enough to make him feel uncomfortable and vulnerable. “You again, Ricky?”

“Uh huh,” Ricky said, sounding miserable. 

****

One moment Newt was with Shane, the next moment he was in what looked like a conference room in the Upside-Down from Stranger Things, dimly lit with gray-green walls and a musty taint to the air. Nothing was tying him to the chair he was in, but he was paralyzed with fear. Because five demons were staring at him.

“Okay, there’s obviously been some kind of mixup,” said the only one that looked like they were maybe trying to present as female, given the tinted lips and curvy figure. Her eyes had no irises, only whites and tiny pupils, but she’d accentuated the eyelids with dark purple eyeliner. Three praying mantises crawling over your bald head didn’t belong to any gender, as far as Newt knew, though who knows what the culture was like in…

“Am I in Hell?” Newt whispered.

“More or less,” said the one who had at least forty little legs. He pointed one of them at a greasy banner taped over the chalkboard at one end of the room: WELCOME TO HECK! THE MILD BUT WILD HOME OF HUMANITY’S PETTILY DAMNED & THEIR AWESOME JAILERS


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just started a new job while also moving into a new place, so I've been too depleted to write much. But it makes me happy to post, even something short, so here's a small offering. More to come as I adjust and things get less frenzied irl. Thank you for your comments - I've read them many times and I will reply soon.

The first time Anathema and Newt had sex didn’t (figuratively) blow her away, even if she knew Newt was afraid of (literally) being blown away by the localized hurricane raging around them. It took them a few weeks to get to know each other well enough, and for Newt to be confident enough, before they had sex that could count as amazing. The first time hadn’t been horrible - Newt hadn’t been selfish and he knew how to follow directions and made sure she finished too - but, you know, panicky and fumbly wasn’t Anathema’s kink. 

However, the second time was much better than the first. They didn’t jump each other the second they got back to the cottage after seeing the world almost come to a flaming wreck. Newt insisted on making tea and toast as an English soothing ritual, and they had it with some very good local blackberry jam. She inexactly read both their futures once the looseleaf tea dregs were all that was left, and he made some stupid cute joke, and _then_ she jumped him. Because they were alive and all her life had led up to this day and now she didn’t know what to do. Because she barely knew this boy but she’d been wondering about him all her life, and he was awkward and nervous but he was also brave and eager to follow her to the ends of the earth, not because anyone prophesied he would but because he liked her. 

They went slowly, that second time. Anathema had never inserted tab A into slot B before, as it were, but she’d gotten a few bases under her belt before (both boys and girls, why not), and she knew what she liked. She’d known for years that she was going to have a near-death little-death experience under non-ideal circumstances, so she’d gotten herself an IUD inserted beforehand by her doctor. Agnes had controlled Anathema’s life, but like hell was anyone but Anathema going to control what happened her own body after the fact.

“It’s weird for me, you being so prepared for everything and me flailing around in open water, with, with only half a paddle at best,” Newt said afterwards, loosely holding her left hand under his own against his naked chest, his head resting against her bare shoulder. 

“I’m in uncharted waters now too,” she said quietly. The thought was deeper than she wanted for pillow talk, so she asked, “Why the lack of experience? I mean, that’s okay, people do stuff at different rates or not at all and that’s all okay, but I’m curious.”

“Religious family, all-boy’s school, social anxiety, people looking at me like I’m a leper once they see me wreck a computer by doing anything more serious than web browsing, take your pick.” Newt’s voice was light, but his face had fallen.

She squeezed his hand. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

He shrugged and smiled ruefully. “Your family handed a book of prophecies down for centuries, mine handed down a recurring theme of mechanical accidents. My great-great-grandfather was killed by a threshing machine he was trying to repair, got a great-uncle who was discharged from the RAF because his plane's instrumrnts always failed, my dad's flooded multiple homes he’s lived in trying to fix the plumbing...it’s like a curse on our ability to handle Devices. So, er, I hope this Device doesn’t work the same way.” 

“This Device isn’t a passive object,” Anathema said, and kissed him. She’d tell him about Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultery-Pulsifer later. He didn’t seem to know, and she wondered if Agnes had pulled a prank on all male Pulsifers from beyond the grave just so it could be useful this one time. 

Or maybe God, but if Anathema allowed herself to imagine God playing pranks, no amount of cuddling would let her sleep tonight.

One week later, she talked Newt into testing whether he was still cursed by reassuring him that she was rich enough to replace her laptop fifteen times over at short notice. And told Agnes, under her breath, to leave him alone. Using theoretical book knowledge he knew by heart but had never been able to carry out before, Newt installed several programs and removed spyware she hadn’t known she’d picked up at some point. Then he started crying with joy.

(It had apparently been too much to expect the bad luck to have permanently gone, instead of changing shape. Three years later, Anathema was taking a train to London to take a magic shortcut to LA via Jen’s portal above Aziraphale’s bookshop, texting said angel and telling him to figure out an exorcism protocol _now_, because he owed her. A being from Heaven once stolen her book and today she'd gotten a phone call telling her _Hell had stolen her man_.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life is even more overwhelming right now than during the last update, but I wanted to post *something* in honor of gearing up to go to Ryan and Shane's live performance at the Death Becomes Us true crime festival in DC on November 10, 2019. I'm very excited. If anyone else is going and would like to meet up, feel free to message me at my tumblr, thebloggerknownasgeeknip!

In the bathroom where Ricky woke up inside the wrong human, Shemodai miracled a pair of handcuffs to shackle the demons to each other and dragged Ricky out of the tech expo and to the car. Demons could have superior strength even when possessing a human body, but they would be weak in comparison to a demon occupying a custom-made mortal shell. Shemodai shouting “Buzzfeed!” to any passersby who gave them odd looks was apparently enough of an excuse to get them out without security taking notice. 

While waiting for Sara to join them, Shemodai had locked Ricky in the trunk for a few hours with his hands cuffed in front of him, arms doubled up, while Shemodai seethed in the front seat. Or something. Ricky couldn’t hear anything after Shemodai’s parting words: “Don’t be a baby about it. It’s easy to make sure Newton’s body is comfortable. For his sake, not yours. You got me tortured for three continuous weeks, and it would have been decades if Ryan hadn't intervened. All I’m doing is boring you.”

After some time, Ricky felt the car move, and some time after that he was blinking in the evening light while Shemodai dragged him into an apartment this time. The short, dark-haired woman with pixie hair (and a pixie air) who let them in seemed familiar.

“Jane?” Ricky asked.

“That’s pretty close,” she said, looking impressed for a moment before she went back to looking concerned. 

“Don’t encourage him, Jen. Or talk to him. Or anything. Did you call Anathema?”

“Yeah, I did. I cleared out some closet space, come this way…”

“Why am I with this gal?” Ricky asked, almost falling over from the speed at which Shemodai steered him around a corner. Also he nearly tripped over a pile of laundry. 

“I’m not letting you anywhere near Ryan or Sara ever again. I even dropped her off first. Also every machine Jen owns works perfectly, even with demonic interference. So if she decides to pepper spray you or whatever...”

“Kinda the opposite of how things used to be for Newt, poor guy,” Jen said. 

They secured him to a chair resting on a very small amount of bare floor space inside a walk-in closet that was still stuffed full of cute boyish clothing. Shemodai instructed her on how to draw the containment circle, and once he was satisfied he said he needed to go for a walk to clear his head.

Jen was a bit nicer, maybe because whatever personal issues she had with Ricky were further removed. She gave him a drink of water and asked him what music he liked. Ricky said jazz. She turned on a jazz playlist and said, “If you need to use the bathroom, we can have Shane supervise you. I’ll leave the music on as long as you don’t do anything assholish. Better than just staring a the wall.”

“Thanks a bunch, sweetie,” Ricky said, trying for a winning smile. She closed and locked the closet door.

It wasn’t long before Jen opened the door again and cleared her throat. “Uh, Ricky, it isn’t my place to negotiate, but I want you to know that I really love Anathema -”

“Who?”

“The girlfriend of the guy whose body you’ve snatched. You met her when you were possessing Sara and stuff?”

“Oh. It was an accident. Being in this body.”

“Shane said you were trying to drag Ryan to Hell.”

In his head, Ricky cursed Malacoda in two infernal languages and five terrestrial ones. “You’re missing out on some key nuances. But go on.”

“I really love Anathema, and I really like Newt, so this is serious,” Jen continued, crossing her arms. “What’s happening to him now?”

“My team’s going to look after him,” Ricky said, trying to sound reassuring.

“WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?” growled a taller woman in a long green dress who swirled into view, brandishing an iron poker. 

Ricky bit his lip. Well, not _his_ lip, but the lip that was available to him. “Right, Anathema. It’s been awhile. Hi.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems that posting these little chapters is working out the best for me right now, so I'll keep at it. I had a wonderful time watching Unsolved live, by the way! [I posted a write-up to my tumblr, if you're interested.](https://thebloggerknownasgeeknip.tumblr.com/post/189026911059/things-i-remember-from-watching-buzzfeed-unsolved)

Four of the demons were now on the other side of the room, huddled and murmuring together about what to do next. Newt was still in the chair. What looked like a vaguely humanoid shadow-person with oddly normal eyes was floating around and staring at him.

“Might I ask what’s going on, er, sir?” Newt squeaked.

“Night-Night,” the demon said. “Only the big bosses call me something other than Night-Night. I’m everyone’s nightmares”

“I see.” Newt couldn’t bring himself to say “nice to meet you”.

“Your name?”

“Newton Pulsifer.”

Night-Night swirled for a moment. “What was that?”

“Newton Pulsifer.”

“FRANCESCA!” Night-Night shouted, high and reedy.

The demon with the praying mantises on her head - Newt had overheard one of the others calling her “she”, the one with lots of legs was a “they”, and everyone else seemed to be a “he” - turned. “Is he giving you trouble?”

“Says his last name is _Pulsifer_. Don’t he look like that Puritan fella in Sector Nine, the one you and Ricky’v been teasin’?”

The huge one, seven or maybe eight feet tall with hands the size of Newt’s head, made a rumbling noise. “If they’re blood, could hide his aura.”

“Excuse me?” Newt continued to try to shrink into the smallest space possible, which hadn’t worked so far, but among his few strengths was persistence at things he was shit at.

Francesca drifted back towards him. “You see, Newton, if you’re here, Ricky’s made a mistake. It’s not going to go well for him if the boss finds out that Ricky has made a mistake. We all rather like working with him.”

“He’s a bonza boss,” said the demon with not only an Australian accent but one of those cartoony big hats with the dangling corks. Except the rest of him was dressed in what looked like leather dominator gear. Or whatever you called a male dominatrix. “Don’t want to lose him so soon after we got him back.”

“But an unauthorized soul in Hell gives off an aura that higher-level demons can detect, and unless we do something about it, you’ll be discovered within hours.” Newt flinched when Francesca reached for him, but she just tipped up his chin to inspect his face. “Very much like him. Do you know if you’re related to Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultery Pulsifer? One of our charges.”

“Er, he’s, he’s, he’s a direct ancestor…” How her fingers could feel so cold when he wasn’t in his body right now, he had no idea.

Francesca released him and nodded approvingly. “Let’s make an agreement, Newton. I will take you to your ancestor, and you are to stay close to him - within, say, fifty paces - until this is sorted out and someone sends you home as soon as possible. Your auras will be similar enough that his can mask yours. In exchange, no torments of this place will affect you personally. You will also feel no hunger, thirst, or weariness.”

“If you make an attempt to escape, we can hurt you a lot before anyone intervenes,” the biggest demon said calmly.

“Besides, Malacoda is gonna be soooooo soooo pissssssed, heh, might take it out onnnn you if he findssss you heeee heee,” said the one with lots of tiny legs. 

They were all advancing on Newt now, so he nodded vigorously. “Fine, I agree.”

“Take my hand, young Pulsifer,” Francesca purred.

The moment he did, he found himself in what looked like a 17th century English village under a cold, drizzling rain and over cold, muddy ground. Every house as far as the eye could see was a burned-out shell, except for one tiny cottage with flickering firelight coming through the one broken window.

“I’m aware that your language has changed considerably in the past centuries, but by default people in Hell hear each other in something simple for them to understand, unless it’s part of a punishment not to understand each other,” Francesca said. She tugged him towards the sole occupied cottage and then banged on the door. “Mr. Adultery! Yoohoo! I brought you a present!”

“Leave me be, hellspawn,” came a miserable voice.

Francesca tsked and wrenched the door off its hinges. “Stay close to him. I’ll leave you to get acquainted.”

“What?!”

But Francesca had vanished, and now Newt’s ancestor was brandishing a musket at him. His clothes were in tatters and his eyes were sunken and haunted, but he looked like Newt down to a shared mole on the cheek. He was also wearing a version of the hat Newt remembered from Shadwell’s little Witchfinder museum. “What devilish mockery art thou, who wears something like my face?”

Newt put his hands up. The gun probably couldn’t do anything to him, but on the other hand Newt was dealing with someone who’d murdered a lot of innocent women on trumped-up charges, so Newt should try to placate him. “I’m your descendant.”

“Pah!”

“No, really, I am! I’m not a demon, I’m a human being!”

“Prove it!”

It had been years since Newt had gone to Sunday school, or to church other than when visiting his parents, but some things one memorizes as a child on one's father's insistence never go away. “_The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me -_”

He didn’t make it any further, because the elder Pulsifer dropped the musket with a sob and wrapped Newt in a tight, desperate hug. “Forgive me, lad. Forgive me. Pray join me for whatever paltry comfort I might provide. I’ve been alone past the point of madness.”


	5. Chapter 5

Shane’s long walk did not improve his frame of mind by much, not when there was one other factor to consider. After checking over text that Anathema, Aziraphale, and Crowley were all with Jen and Ricky now, as well as a few other bits of info, he locked himself in his parked car and texted Ryan.

_I need you to take yourself and your phone somewhere I can pop out without being seen._

_WTF Shane we’re finishing up dinner getting ready to leave for the show???_

_spooky stuff emergency_

_k gimme a sec_

_Tell me when._

_when_

Shane dialed Ryan’s number, placed his phone safely on the passenger seat, and hitched a ride on the sound waves.

He found himself standing by a Dumpster out back of what was likely some relatively nice restaurant, given Ryan’s snappy blazer and loafers and even more effort on his hair than on his more put-together work days. Ryan was rubbing the back of his own neck as a nervous gesture. “Mari thinks I’m talking sensitive family news with my mom. What’s up?”

“This would be easier if you just told her about me,” Shane couldn’t help but comment. Again. 

Ryan groaned. “I’m gonna, I promise.”

“I need to do a short but really super thorough psychic scan of you for any new demonic influence, and it might be a little uncomfortable,” Shane said. Ryan had previously given him permission to do whatever it took to prevent Ryan ever getting possessed again, so he just gripped Ryan’s shoulders firmly and dove in. One might describe it as running his hands over the edges of Ryan’s mind and soul, the way one prods and gropes a cantaloupe to test for quality. And by “one”, Shane meant himself. He was aware that he had a reputation for weird analogies.

Not that Ryan was much better, because when Shane was done after six seconds, Ryan made a face and said, “That felt like getting a prostate exam. Not physically, but in the sense of, like, a consensual violation from a concerned professional.”

“We all know you secretly hope aliens will involve you in butt stuff, no need to continue on about your kinks,” Shane joked, feeling relieved that Ryan was no more tarnished than he’d been last time Shane had seen him. He let go of Ryan and sighed. “Seriously, though, Ricky’s back on Earth, so you understand my professional concern.”

“Fuck.” Ryan’s eyes darted around as if Ricky was going to manifest right here in Las Vegas. “Do you know what his game is?”

“He was assigned to possess you, but he accidentally possessed our pal Newton Pulsifer instead. Jen got him to accidentally confirm that the objective was to drag you to Hell. Newt’s soul isn’t present but dormant like in a normal possession. Instead, it’s not in his body at all.” It made Shane feel sick to think about that almost happening to Ryan.

It must have shown on his face, because Ryan put his right hand on Shane’s shoulder. “Have you got the usual gang together to work on it?”

“Haven’t talked to Andrew yet. Worth It is filming a miniseries in Brazil.” 

Ryan rubbed his chin thoughtfully with his left hand. “Hmm. He’d be helpful, but I don’t want him to get in trouble with Heaven for meddling. Yeah, it worked out with Steven, but that just means Andrew might be out of freebies.”

“He’s _your_ laissez-faire guardian angel. This was an attack on you, originally. Your call.”

“It was originally an attack on me, but from what I’ve heard, Andrew’s direct boss might consider the situation out of his hands now and prefer that he not get involved any further. Let’s make it Aziraphale’s call.” Ryan let go of Shane and took a step back. “What precautions should I take? Is there any reason I can’t continue with my evening plans?”

Shane wanted to abduct Ryan and keep him in a safe little box with some gym equipment and a big-screen TV to keep him entertained, but that wasn’t how friendship worked. “Other than no sane person needing to see Blue Man Group live for a fifth time, I think you’re good until further notice. I’ll keep checking in. Do you have holy water on you?”

Ryan produced a hip flask from his pants pocket. “Here in Vegas it’s easier to fake sip and pretend it’s liquor.”

“I can imagine.” 

They stood in awkward silence for a moment as Shane felt the urgency of returning to help interrogate Ricky, but also the anxiety of leaving Ryan alone. Ryan cleared his throat and said, “If it helps your state of mind at all - because you’re obviously more freaked out than you’re pretending to be - the reason I haven’t told my girlfriend the truth about you isn’t that I’m ashamed or something stupid like that. It’s because I’m afraid of the possibility that she’d want to make me choose between my relationship with her and my friendship with you. And I would rather not go back to living in a crappy bachelor apartment, endlessly scrolling through Tinder all over again…”

_Because I’d definitely choose you,_ Shane heard, even if Ryan wasn’t saying it directly. Despite everything, it did make Shane feel a little bit better .

****

Newt and his ancestor tried to put the door Francesca had wrecked back on its hinges, but it became clear that the door was either going to slip out of their fingers and slide a few feet out on the muddy road, or fall inwards and hit Pulsifer. Every time. 

“Mayhaps I’ll mend it one day,” Pulsifer said, sounded resigned. “For a long time I endured a hole in the roof I couldn’t mend, not ‘til the hellspawn offered me a chance to mend it if I collected all six hundred pieces of finely chopped wood from the bottom of a dry well, one at a time. They keep their bargains, these fiends, else none of us damned would play their games. Thou shalt grow accustomed to their ways.”

“I’m not really dead,” Newt said, edging away from the rain and wind and following him towards the hearth on the other end of the only room this place had. A flimsy pot was hung over the fire with some kind of brown and green sludge inside. Right next to it was a lumpy mattress leaking straw. “It’s a long story.”

Pulsifer gave him a slight, indulgent smile. “Believe whatever tale pleases thee, lad. It takes some of us time to make peace with our damnation. Remember always that we escaped the Pit, and find scant moments of contentment where thou may. I’ll share my pease porridge with thee once it’s done. ”

Newt decided he didn’t have the energy to argue about whether he was dead or not. (What if somehow he was, like maybe he’d had a brain aneurysm at the tech expo and this was all sadistic trick?) He latched onto something mundane as a distraction. “Surely you don’t still need to eat if you’re dead?”

“I am sometimes permitted to ease the hunger I feel without reason.” Pulsifer nudged the only chair towards Newt. “Sit. I’ll enjoy thy company while I’m able to, lad.”

The wooden chair had one leg that was shorter than the others. Of course. As unsteadily as the chair, Newt said, “My name is Newton Pulsifer, but my friends call me Newt. What did your friends call you?”

“What friends I had simply addressed me as Pulsifer.” 

“What about your family? Calling you that would have gotten confusing.”

Pulsifer leaned back on the bare wooden boards of the wall and tapped his fingers against the crumbling plaster. He clearly needed time to think about it. “I was an orphan, and recall naught but ‘Pulsifer’ when all was well and ‘Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultery’ when I had displeased my guardians.”

“Your wife?” Newt regretted asking the moment he said it.

After a very long silence, Pulsifer murmured, “Terry.”

Newt winced at the softness in Pulsifer’s voice, which went beyond just the quiet volume. “I’m sorry.”

“I was told she spent a short while in a place in Hell known as Purgatory, but went to Heaven at the last. Of my children, only Visit-The-Ungodly-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets also came to Hell, and it was likewise Purgatory before his sins were cleansed. None of them followed my witch-burning footsteps, not after God smote me. I have no right to wish for more...though I would have liked to see them grown.” He looked at Newt for at least fifteen seconds before he said, “Wilt thou call me ‘Grandfather’?”

****

Ricky seemed to find Anathema’s questioning more tiresome than intimidating, so she’d quickly let the ineffable husbands take over before she totally lost her cool. Anathema, Crowley, Aziraphale, and Jen had set up shop in Jen’s living room with Ricky trapped in a circle on the bare floor. Aziraphale had unchained him as part of a good-cop routine. It seemed that Ricky found Shane intimidating but Crowley downright terrifying, so Crowley was perched on the arm of the comfy chair Aziraphale was sitting in, his own arms crossed and sunglasses off for maximum glaring. Apparently the last time Ricky and Crowley had met, Ricky had been out of the loop of all Hell gossip for more than two decades, and he hadn’t known that Crowley had irrevocably melted one of his own colleagues. Now that he knew, Ricky was much more twitchy. 

By this point Ricky had positioned Newt’s body huddled on the floor, hugging his knees. “I’m telling you, none of this was my idea. None of this was something I wanted. Even if it had gone according to plan. I was more than pleased to never involve myself with any of you ever again. My team doesn’t want me up here either, and my second-in-command is smart enough to hang onto Newt’s soul and keep him safe.”

“We hear what you’re saying, Rictus,” Aziraphale said in soothing tones, hands folded primly in his lap. “What we need now is how we’re going to get Newt back.”

“And prevent any more threats to Ryan,” Crowley added.

Ricky shrugged helplessly. “You tell me.”

Jen touched Anathema’s arm and mouthed _let’s get you some air_. She led Anathema to her bedroom and opened a window wider to allow a breeze in. After the sun had gone down, things had cooled sufficiently that Jen turned off the air conditioning. “You don’t look so good. I mean, like, emotionally. You always look nice aesthetically.”

Anathema huffed a faint laugh and closed the door behind her. “I get to look at my boyfriend’s body while a completely different accent is coming out, while also knowing the real Newt might be having - might be - might be having...you know...horrible things happen to him. No matter what Ricky claims.”

Jen cleared a coloring book, two magazines, a Sony PSP, a bra, and a warped old sock monkey off her unmade bed and turned down the covers to sit on the edge. How Anathema got from sitting down next to Jen to crying her eyes out while Jen rubbed her back and handed her tissues she wasn’t sure, but she was grateful she wasn’t doing this alone. 

“Let it out, sweetie,” Jen said. “We’re gonna figure it out, but it’s super normal and healthy to need a sec to get through the freaking out part first.”

“I’m so scared,” Anathema managed to say after blowing her nose. Then another wave of sobs took her. 

After Anathema calmed down a bit, Jen said, “Of course you’re scared. Who wouldn’t be?” 

“I wasn’t this scared when I thought the world was gonna end, Jen, I had a plan and instructions and divine will on my side, and it wasn’t personal like this. I’ve been so happy to live my own life and not be obsessed with destiny and prophecy but right now I wish I knew what to do, I wish that I could - wait.”

“What?”

Anathema balled up all the used tissues and tossed them into the little trash can against the wall. Then she took a deep breath. “Back when Aziraphale took my book of prophecies and I only had my index cards left, I researched a backup plan that I never ended up going through with. Partly because I ended up not needing it, but partly because it would have required help. Specifically, I’d need two more witches. I was a technical virgin at the time, which was also required because old spells can be horribly patriarchal in attitude, but these days I’d need at least one of the others to fill that roll. I don’t want to assume, but…” Anathema made a vague gesture in Jen’s direction. 

“What do you mean by ‘technical’? Like no PIV? Because I’m a gold star gay.” Jen had been the one to explain to Anathema what “gold star” meant at all. Jen had also said that she thought using the term to act like people who’d always known they were gay were better than ones who’d done more exploration was “icky”, and that she herself only used it in a joking fashion.

Anathema hadn’t heard the other term, but it wasn’t hard to guess. “If that stands for penis-in-vagina, yes, that’s what I mean.”

Jen made finger guns. “Ha, well that’s taken care of. And Sara’s been itching to help. She’s been blowing up my phone ever since Shane dropped her off.”

“Wait, Sara’s a witch too?” That wouldn’t be surprising, but Anathema thought they’d gotten close enough for Sara to be comfortable sharing something like that. Even if their friendship was more through Jen as a conduit rather than directly with each other.

“I looked up a whole bunch of definitions of what counts as a witch, and even if she doesn’t have ‘powers’, I’m pretty sure Newt’s ancestor would have gone after her like a shot,” Jen said. When Anathema continued to stare, confused, Jen said, “Consorting with unholy spirits? Right? I know we live weird lives, but you gotta step back and remember that regularly getting it on with a demon for years makes you a bit different from other people.”

“Right!” Anathema rubbed her aching temples and tried to banish the mild feeling that she’d had a moment of intense stupidity. “And there’s got to be a lot of secondhand energy there.”

“What’s your idea anyways?” 

Anathema got to her feet. If she was going to do this, she needed to start preparing immediately. “Contact Agnes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- During the live show I went to, Shane teased about Ryan having seen Blue Man Group live four times. If you are unfamiliar, they are bald men in black clothes and covered in blue paint who wordlessly play music with unusual implements, plus prop comedy. This is one of my favorite Ryan facts now. 
> 
> \- Yes, the "Terry" is a tribute, as well as a plausible nickname for someone whose name includes "Adultery". I also slipped in a nod to Visit-The-Ungodly-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets, aka Constable Visit, who is a minor character in a few of Terry Pratchett's Discworld novels. He's a member of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch and a devout follower of The Church of Om, and his appearances gently poke fun at Puritans and anyone with a similar vibe.


	6. Chapter 6

After returning from checking up on Ryan, Shane drove straight home, influencing traffic so he only hit green lights. No matter the evidence otherwise, part of him expected to find Sara possessed too if he didn’t get to her soon enough. 

Instead, he found Sara in sweatpants and a thin plaid button-up shirt with rolled-up sleeves tidying up the dining room. Obi was following her around, tail twitching. Sara didn’t have any demonic influence about her other than Shane’s own. She paused in rearranging the pile of documents that had accumulated on the table. “Is Ryan okay?”

Shane put his keys in the key bowl near the door. “He’s fine. We disagreed on whether to tell Andrew or not about what nearly happened and agreed to let Aziraphale break the tie. Aziraphale hasn’t responded to my text yet.” 

“You look like you could use a hug.”

“Do I?”

“Maybe not to other people, but I know you. C’mere.”

He let his chin rest on top of her head as they hugged, enjoying the fit. “Any particular reason for the spontaneous organization?”

“Jen and Anathema want to hold a seance here to ask Anathema’s ancestor for advice. I told them I’d check with you first, but I was also seized with the realization of how messy it’s gotten.”

If they were going to hold a genuine seance, not the silly roleplays that most supposed seances actually were, this was a good place. To avoid Sara being attacked again, Shane had spent a lot of time and energy warding their home against any demons other than himself and Crowley, which was important given how an opportunistic demon could slip through the doorways genuine seances created between the mortal pane and elsewhere. That didn’t mean everything was all systems go, though.

Shane stepped back and put one hand on Sara’s shoulder. “Are you going to be a participant?”

“Yes. Anathema needs three witches total and, like, ‘consorting’ with, uh, ‘infernal spirits’ is enough of a qualifier.” She looked adorably embarrassed. 

“Also there’s your third nipple,” he said cheerfully. 

She started to laugh. Then stopped. “Wait, are you serious?”

Shane winced. “Oops. You didn’t know?”

“No!”

“May I?” He undid the top three buttons on her shirt and touched the small brown dot just on the downward slope of the curve of her left breast. “That’s not a mole. About one in eighteen humans have them, and it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. There’s a statistically significant correspondence between that and some kind of natural talent for witchcraft, though. Just talent.”

“Huh. I didn’t know that’s what that was.” She poked it too, now sounding intrigued rather than freaked out. Maybe she’d been expecting some bizarre growth she’d somehow never noticed before. 

He shrugged. “I figured it would have been rude to call attention to it. Anyway, I’m okay with all that, but not until tomorrow.”

“That’s reasonable. Anathema’s worn out anyway.”

“Also, I won’t participate directly but I need to be able to see and hear what’s going on so I can intervene if something goes - Obi, you are my sweet baby boy cat child, but my leg is not a scratching post. Your post is over there.”

“It’s an easy mistake to make,” Sara said, amused. “I was gonna ask you to supervise anyway.”

“Great. And the last thing...this will sound weird, but...we need to have sex tonight.”

Sara raised an eyebrow. “Jen’s had an open, low-key crush on Anathema for a long time, but I think all the other combinations would be a hard sell.”

“That’s not what I mean -”

“Had to tease you.” She kissed his cheek. “This a marking-your-territory thing? Because I can’t think of the last time you _initiated_, not just accepted an invitation.”

“If you’re messing with mystical forces, I’ll feel better if those mystical forces know who they’ll have to answer to if they mess with you,” Shane said quietly. “And it won’t hurt your ability to get through to a human soul, even if it’s in the human Paradise. Maybe even give you a boost.”

“Way better than you peeing on me.”

Shane laughed. “Way better.” It was also better than the way he’d marked up Ryan, which was by tampering with his perception and memories for several years on a near-constant basis. Having done it on orders wasn’t enough of an excuse to completely soothe his crumb of conscience. Ricky had come within a hair of condemning Ryan to Heck for possibly years on orders, too, and Shane wasn’t going to let Ricky off the hook.

He stopped thinking about that, and focused on who was in front of him. Sex with Sara was nice. She had a good time and he had a good time making sure she had a good time. Sometimes this body that had been constructed for him properly climaxed and sometimes it didn’t. At first it had taken some effort to convince her that he didn’t mind either way. This time he made sure it did, though, because he wanted this claim to be as indisputable as possible. _I don’t care if she’s on your turf, this one is mine. Mine. Mine. Minemineminemineminemine._

She fell asleep cuddling him, but he was too restless to indulge in sleep he didn’t need anyway, so after about an hour he untangled himself and moved to the couch with his laptop. He clicked on the desktop folder labeled GRAYWING PRODUCTIONS. Might as well put more work into the project, even if Steven and Andrew hadn’t yet contributed the estimated budget spreadsheets they’d promised to send him last week. Might as well pretend to be nothing but so-mundane Shane Madej for awhile.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long absence! Got sidetracked by a different fic. 
> 
> I posted the last chapter, which mentions "Graywing Productions", only two days before the announcement came out about Ryan, Shane, and Steven breaking away to form Watcher Entertainment. Which is almost exactly what I had envisioned, except Graywing was conceived as including all the Buzzfeeders who know what Shane really is. Call me the new Agnes because I'm a prophet, lol. I've decided to incorporate references to the real Watcher Entertainment in the places where I was already planning to discuss this universe's similar concept.

Not a ring of salt, because Shane would have a hard time reaching them to intervene if something went wrong. A ring of fresh rosemary, sprinkled in a large circle around Shane and Sara’s dining table and the three women sitting at it. Rosemary for remembering. Shane leaned his long frame against the far wall with deceptive nonchalance, arms folded, and his true eyes showing whenever he thought nobody was looking at him. Anathema didn’t call him out on it. 

“I’m hoping Agnes can speak aloud through me, but I have this paper and pen here to channel writing if that’s easier for her,” Anathema said, lighting the last of the candles. Daylight filtered even through the closed curtains, but otherwise the candles were their only light. 

“Gotta admit this is pretty cool,” Jen whispered. Sara grinned at her for a second, but back to business. 

Anathema felt too anxious and heavy for smiles, but she was glad they weren’t afraid. “Let’s join hands.”

She’d practiced the incantations until she could say them by heart. At once point Jen had to prick a finger with a sanitized needle and squeeze a few drops onto the offering of flowers and fruit they’d arranged on a platter. Virgin blood in two senses of the word, the other being blood that had never been used for magical purposes before. Anathema and Sara held hands with each other until Jen could join them again, keeping each other grounded and safe.

Finally, Anathema said, “And we entreat you, Agnes Nutter, witch and only truly accurate prophet ever known, my ancestor, to answer our call.”

Beat.

Beat.

“Do you hear something?” Jen asked.

Sara began, “No, I don’t think I -”

Then Jen said, “Okay, if you promise to leave again.”

“Excuse me?” Anathema asked. Then she felt Jen’s grip go slack, and Jen’s eyes rolled back in her head and she started flopping sideways right as the candles went out. “NO!”

In the semidarkness, Sara showed similar distress to what Anathema was feeling. “Anathema, can we get up to help her? Shane, do you know what’s going on?”

“Jen consented,” Shane said, in a voice that he must have meant to be soothing. 

Then the candles came back on and Jen sat back up. She released her friends’ hands. In an accent that was very much not hers, she said, “Why would I speak through thee, clever Anathema, when I could answer thy questions face-to-face?”

“Agnes?”

“Aye.” Agnes-in-Jen got to her feet. She approached Anathema and put one hand on her shoulder. “I sent thee and thy man a book with prophecies to last all thy days, and they perished in flame. Why?”

Anathema could feel her throat tightening and her eyes welling up. “I’m grateful you left that for me, Agnes, I really am, but I want to live my own life. I’m only doing this because Newt needs me. Whatever problem you might have with his family - very understandable, by the way - I love him and nobody else has any clue how to save him. I’m not demanding anything more than what you were already willing to provide.”

Agnes brushed a lock of hair out of Anathema’s face. She smiled warmly. Maternally. “Very well. _Bad Ending will make a grave error, and the Smile will wear the wrong face. The living man who has seen Hell shall bend the ear of Silence, for an even greater wrong has gone unspoken._”

“Excuse me, could you please repeat the last sentence?” Sara had grabbed the pencil and pen and was taking notes.

After doing so, Agnes turned to look at Shane. “Demon, care to ask aught of me?”

Shane must have been seriously startled, because he briefly flickered into something spindlier and sharper before returning to his usual appearance. “None I can think of, ma’am. Or Mistress, I guess, in your time, before the meaning of the word changed.”

“_Understand the old why, find your new how,_” Agnes shrugged. “Your answer, Shemodai. I never did see the question.”

“Thank you?” Shane replied, fidgeting.

“At least she didn’t say ‘42’,” Sara murmured, winking at him. He chuckled. The couple-ness of it made Anathema feel even stormier inside.

“It will come out right, greatest of granddaughters mine,” Agnes said. She leaned in to hug her. Anathema clung hard.

The candles went out. When they relit themselves, Jen’s body was still hugging Anathema, but her voice sounded like Jen again. “This is nice. What did she say?”

“You didn’t know?” Anathema asked.

“I wasn’t here. There was a voice in my ear asking for permission, I gave it, then boom, I was having a nice dream about my Japanese grandma’s house,” Jen said.

“We got a clue,” Sara said brightly. “Get over here, Shane honey.”

“We should close the portal first,” Anathema said.

Once all proper seance etiquette was complete, Shane joined them at the table, looking totally normal again. He leaned on his elbows with one leg jittering. “Most of it’s easy to decipher. _Bad Ending_ is a direct translation of the name of my old boss and Ricky’s current boss. Ricky’s real name means a forced, unpleasant smile.”

“The next person is Ryan,” Sara said. 

“Obviously. I don’t know about the ‘ear of Silence’. We should talk to Crowley and Aziraphale about that.”

“Andrew too,” Anathema suggested. 

Jen nodded, then frowned. “I have a terrible headache. Is that normal?”

“Not uncommon, even with a very gentle possession,” Shane said. “It’s not the kind of pain I can fix or that human medicine is going to dent, but it should go away soon. How about you lie down in the guest room for awhile?”

“The guest room which is covered in puppet show components?” Sara asked, raising an eyebrow. 

Shane grinned sheepishly. “I’ll clear some space.”

“I gotta see this,” Jen said.

“I can’t tell you all the details yet, but Ryan and Steven and I are doing a project that Andrew’s on the fence about, and he will definitely not join us if I use my powers to make things pertaining to it. So as part of persuading him to join us, which I want because Steven will be happier and Ryan will be safer, I have to do all the non-emergency things the human way.”

“Which means experimenting with sewing puppet parts by hand for hours,” Sara said, patting Shane’s shoulder. “I’m gonna go console Obi for being rudely trapped in another room for so long.”

“You should rest before continuing, too,” Jen told Anathema. 

“We’re still not anywhere close to a solution,” Anathema protested, but she could feel exhaustion creeping over her now that the excitement had worn off.

“Hey, I’ve seen a decent amount of witchcraft in my time, and that was impressive and highly deserving of a break,” Shane said. Glasses of water appeared in front of all the ladies. Anathema drained hers in seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Linguistic note:
> 
> I'm not trying to go for perfect realism, but I do want the flavor of antique speech when dealing with the dead ancestors. Thee/thou/ye/thy/thine were once English's informal and/or emotionally intimate counterparts to the formal/deferential you (object)/you (subject)/you (plural)/your/yours . Calling someone "thou" if you didn't know them well and/or were their social inferior was rude. Similar to tu/vous in modern French. This is why Agnes and Pulsifer are using thee/thou with their descendants and Agnes calls Shane "you". In the TV miniseries, she calls Aziraphale and Crowley "you", but she calls Pulsifer "thou", which would have offended him. As I'm sure she intended.
> 
> Puppet note:
> 
> If you haven't seen the pilot episode of Shane's new show Puppet History, [here he is explaining the Black Death with puppets and a musical number. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=abmzSFY0I1k)


	8. Chapter 8

Ryan was due to return to L.A. only a few hours after the seance wrapped up. He agreed to drop Marielle off at home and quickly head over to Jen’s to confer with the others. Some of the meeting would have to be out of Ricky’s hearing, but it would be convenient to have him in the next room for additional questioning. Also, the truce between Shane and Andrew included steering clear of each other’s apartments. Andrew needed protection from accusations of excessive fraternizing with a demon, and the faint holiness hanging around Andrew’s apartment made Shane feel vaguely itchy. (Andrew had not had the same problem when visiting Shane’s home in previous emergencies because Sara’s constant presence had diluted the infernal vibes.) Now that Ryan was living with someone who wasn’t in the know, Jen and sometimes Steven had hosted several private meetings, though not one this serious yet. 

As the meeting drew closer, Shane decided to have another chat with Ricky-in-Newt’s body and give Aziraphale and Crowley a break from guard duty. Someone had provided Ricky with a sleeping bag so that Newt’s body could get some rest while staying in the containment circle the previous night. He’d also been provided with a reusable metal bottle, presumably full of water, and Shane knew he’d been fed and escorted to the bathroom at appropriate intervals. All of which made sense. What made less sense was…

“Is that a coloring book?” Shane asked, taking a seat in the chair Aziraphale had recently vacated. The Ineffable Husbands had gone for a little drive in their rental car as a break from the mental fatigue of dealing with this asshole while also worrying about one of their favorite humans. 

“I told the angel what I thought of him, and the serpent said I was acting childish and deserved no better,” Ricky said. 

Shane laughed despite how tense he felt. The coloring book was on the theme of bible stories, for extra irony. “Sounds like him, but you’re actually coloring in it.”

“Bored.” Upon closer inspection, Ricky had drawn a truly impressive number of red and purple dicks all over Moses. “He only gave me ten crayons, and two are broken.”

“You’re lucky he didn’t do worse. They’re very protective of each other.”

Ricky suddenly tore a page out of the book and snapped, “Just tell me what the fuck you want, Shemodai."

“Not so fun thinking about spending decades in the Ditch after this is over, is it?” Shane knew that the mixup wasn’t Ricky’s fault, but Malacoda wasn’t going to see it that way. Malacoda had once sentenced a low-ranking demon to two subjective years in the Ditch for dripping too much slime on his office floor. 

Ricky grimaced. “I bet you’re just loving this.”

“Once I probably would have. But you’re wearing someone I consider my responsibility, and that’s taking a lot of the fun out of it.” Shane leaned forward. “Aziraphale doesn’t know Hell at all and Crowley’s been way out of touch for centuries. I bet they haven’t asked you why Malacoda has any influence in Limbo at all when he isn't part of Punishments. Despite doing Pit shifts on occasion, I was out of the Heck hype. But I know enough to know that ain't quite right."

Ricky said something in their language, not English. It wasn't nice.

"Okay, first of all, I don't want you to wreck Newton's throat, so go easy on the growls. Second of all, collaborating with my team got you out of some deep shit before. Seems common sense to try that again." Then Shane got out his phone and started scrolling through Instagram, making a show of ignoring Ricky. Denial of attention was the best way to torture him without freaking out Jen, whose sensibilities should be catered to as their current host. 

Over half an hour later, Ricky said, "Fine. The line between who goes to Heck and who goes to Purg is fuzzy, but the second counts as a net loss because the souls eventually end up with the other side. A few hundred years ago, Malacoda apparently suggested at a Council meeting that any department leader that can demonstrate stats of souls ending up in Heck rather than Purg by a narrow margin should receive a proportionate bonus. It was a big hit. Which means that the Heck admin has been kissing his ass since then for making their department way more prestigious than it had been before." 

"I guess you're more interested in politics than I ever was." Shane wasn't kindly disposed enough to this guy to thank him.

“I got Malacoda to agree to send Ryan’s soul to my team ‘cause I knew they’d treat him more gently than anyone else would, so the other dweeb is getting the same treatment. You’re welcome.” Ricky went back to coloring the parting of the Red Sea. It looked like an ocean of blood. 

Shane didn’t know how to respond to that, but to his relief Sara approached and put a comforting arm around his shoulders in a way that she couldn’t have reached if he were standing. “I assume you two aren’t getting along.”

“You’re very perceptive,” Shane leaned into her. When he was assigned this body, he hadn’t known that he was going to inhabit it indefinitely rather than only a few years. Sometimes he wished it were a little smaller, something someone else could more easily hold.

“Andrew appeared in the kitchen a moment ago. Apparently if he believes Ryan is in clear and present danger from Hellish forces he’s allowed to, like, teleport? I agreed to watch Ricky while the rest of you brief Andrew in Jen’s room.” 

“We’re doing it in Jen’s bedroom? Uh...not the best way to phrase it, I know.”

“The apartment isn’t very big and we don’t want this guy listening in on the meeting. I’m the least necessary to the meeting. You go scheme.” She kissed Shane on the cheek.

“Okay, but don’t let him get under your skin.”

“Too late.” Ricky’s smirk turned into a bout of creative swearing when Shane snapped his fingers and thus snapped the remaining unbroken crayons. Shane was grateful that Sara had agreed to let Ricky possess her for a short time a few years ago as part of the plan to rescue Shane, but Ricky gloating about it was plain gross. 

The rest of the gang was in Jen’s room when Shane got there. The neatness level was very out of character and probably Crowley’s miraculous doing. Not Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale was the “comfy clutter” type, as anyone could see from his bookshop. Jen and Anathema were sitting on the bed and learning against the headboard. Ryan was sitting on the end of the bed, Aziraphale was standing in the far corner, and Crowley was leaning against the wall next to him in a lazy slouch that was probably meant to look cool. 

The newly-arrived angel was standing and facing everyone, arms folded behind his back, wearing pressed khaki shorts and a bright shirt covered in realistic but happy-looking toucans. No shirt and facial expression could ever be more mismatched in tone. Shane and Shemodai, as personas, had become so blended together that it was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began, but this was definitely not Andrew Ilnyckyj. Definitely not the guy who’d run around the Buzzfeed offices in various costumes pretending to be creepy, who made dumb puns and dry remarks purely to make Steven Lim laugh, who fed Adam Bianchi gourmet bites off his own fork, who demanded people stop a car so he could run out and pet a random puppy. Right now, he was a hundred percent Nichiel, Feeder of the Righteous, distributor of manna, his face devoid of apparent emotion. Aziraphale said Nichiel had a lot of the softness that Andrew did when he was around other angels he got along with, but Shane had never seen that firsthand for obvious reasons.

“Shut the door behind you,” Nichiel said. Shane did and took a seat next to Ryan. 

“He’s going to dance around it, but he’s cross at us for not notifying him about the situation earlier,” Crowley said. Aziraphale (gently) elbowed him in the ribs.

“That’s on me,” Ryan said.

“We agreed that you’d keep me in the loop in exchange for me being more hands-off,” Nichiel said. 

“I’m sorry, I did it because -”

“That doesn’t matter right now. You narrowly escaped possession. I need the complete picture, ideally before the Worth It crew figures out I'm not in Rio. Steven said he'd cover for me, but he's not a good liar. Everyone tell me everything. Please. Chronologically.”

“Are you going to help us get Newt back?” Anathema asked, hands clasped together in her lap like she didn’t trust them on her own. 

His face softened into a brief expression of pity. “I’m sorry, I can’t help directly. But if there is something I can do while remaining in my jurisdiction, I will."

"Fair enough, I'd rather not have to deal with a whole new guardian angel up in my business," Ryan said, sounding like he was trying to defuse the tension with humor. 

“She would not put up with this much,” Nichiel muttered, suggesting that he knew exactly who his replacement would be. Everyone here knew he’d almost lost this position for the time he’d given Steven unsanctioned divine assistance, but Shane hadn’t realized the ice was that thin, and knowing that made the coldness less annoying. It wasn’t a holier-than-thou attitude, it was more like the defensive armor of a harried single parent afraid of losing custody.

So without any snarky remarks, Shane cleared his throat and started talking about what had gone down at the tech expo. Jen followed with her point of view on Shane dragging Ricky in here and her own interactions with him. Aziraphale and Crowley reported everything they’d gotten out of the demon. Finally, with an impressively steady voice, Anathema shared the results of the seance.

Upon hearing Agnes’ prophecy, Nichiel’s eyebrows shot up. “Ryan, I need to speak to you privately for a moment.”

“Uh, okay?” Ryan followed him out of the bedroom and into to the bathroom. As funny of a choice of location as it was, the bathroom was the only remaining place inside this apartment to get privacy.

To break the tense silence, Shane asked Jen, “What’s it like being possessed by a departed soul?” 

Jen shrugged. “I don’t have anything to compare it to firsthand. Sara said being possessed by a demon made her feel really gross. I didn’t feel that way. Didn’t like the headache afterwards, but emotionally I felt cozy and nice. I know Agnes wasn’t, like, cuddly to everyone, to say the least. I get the sense she was a good mom, though.”

Anathema half-smiled. “It would have been nice to talk with her longer. She’d talked to me for my whole life until recently, but I never knew what she’d say if I responded.”

“You should go do something pleasant after this,” Aziraphale suggested. “Lift your spirits.”

“Maybe stay the night nearby but elsewhere,” Crowley said. 

After a few minutes of everyone suggesting ideas to Anathema of how she might “lift her spirits” while waiting for her boyfriend’s spirit to get “lifted” somehow, Ryan came back into the bedroom alone. “Andrew’s swapping out with Sara so he can have his own talk with Ricky. I’m going to tell you what he told me, because he’s not allowed to tell anyone but me about Heaven.”

“Maybe let’s wait for her,” Shane said. 

Sara arrived less than a minute later and took the seat on the bed Ryan had previously occupied. Ryan folded his (ridiculously buff) arms in front of him and said: “There’s an official Angel of Silence like in Agnes’ prophecy. His name is Duma and he’s one of Andrew/Nichiel’s best friends of literally all time. Andrew’s not allowed to call in favors for Newt, but there are ways I could get Duma’s attention. Which I’m happy to do. If it wasn’t for the mixup, it’d be Newt standing here instead of me and everyone figuring out how to get _my_ soul back in its body, and it would have probably taken longer to figure out because Ricky has some idea of how to impersonate me -”

“Ryan,” Anathema said quietly.

“Sorry. So we figure Duma’s important for two reasons. One is that his responsibilities include paying attention to secrets and silent injustices. The other is that, apparently, he’s in a relationship with the angelic representative to Purgatory, Remiel. Who’s the only angel who regularly interacts with representatives of Hell.”

“I know Remiel,” Aziraphale said. “Well, knew. Wellllll, was acquainted with. By reputation. Unless he’s changed much in the past few years, he’s extremely fussy and pedantic about rules. It would make sense not to approach him directly when it comes to an unorthodox objective.”

“The traditional way would be to take a vow of silence, but we don’t have time for that. Andrew thinks three days of no talking and otherwise making as little noise as possible, would be enough of a sacrifice for a prayer boost.” Ryan rubbed the back of his neck. “That being said, work starts tomorrow. We’re between seasons of actively shooting stuff, but I still have to interact with people.”

“I’ll speak for you,” Shane said. They sat next to each other in the office, so anyone who approached Ryan was by default approaching Shane too. “While at our desks, in meetings, whatever. Though you’re on your own at home.”

Sara did finger-guns. “We can make it a video, and then nobody will think it’s weird! Some little funny thing where we say, like, you lost a bet…”

“...Or a more serious thing, like we can claim you’re filming a Day of Silence tribute in advance.” After a moment’s thought, Jen added, “I’ve got a relatively free schedule the first half of the week. I can handle the camera if we keep it simple.”

“At the end of it, maybe pray in a soundproof booth with a candle. Angels love aesthetics.” Crowley flashed a grin at Aziraphale, who made a cutesy “oh, you” face/hand gesture in response.

“Do you think you can use your admin cred to rush approval through?” Shane asked Sara. “I think using infernal powers to simply cut through red tape would sabotage the whole effort.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Sara said.

“If you give me a clearer understanding of what you need, I can give it a go,” Aziraphale said.

“Brainstorm!” Crowley waved a large freestanding whiteboard into existence and tossed dry-erase markers at the four Buzzfeeders present. True to form, Jen failed to catch hers, but Anathema caught it and handed it to her. “You lot seem to solve most of your problems while making videos about them, by the way. Just an observation.”

Ryan took the cap off his marker and approached the board. “Sometimes we solve them _by_ making videos about them.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emetophobes, there's nothing detailed, but the thing you are phobic of is briefly mentioned.

Time in Limbo was strange, and the distress it caused was inconsistent. That’s what Newt would tell anyone who asked him. Assuming he got out of here at some point. Where they were, it rained a lot, cold gray rain that could have lasted hours or days. There really was no way to tell when you had no clocks, you never properly slept, and you never saw the sun. When the rain stopped, the land didn’t seem refreshed by it at all, staying dusty and barren.The “days” and “nights” were just alternating periods of the “sky” being lighter or darker, with no pattern to how long those periods felt.

Pulsifer did his best to maintain a routine. If it was raining and there was light enough to see, whether from outside or a fire, he would try to stay dry and wrote letters and essays to people he’d once known, or made repairs to the house as best he could. If it wasn’t raining, he had a small patch of land he tried to farm. If it was too dark to do anything, he’d lie quietly and ponder. After five periods-of-light, he would attempt to take one period-of-light to wander farther afield and try to find anything interesting, maybe even another human soul to interact with, which had happened a handful of times. When possible, he took the seventh period-of-light to pray.

But things rarely went smoothly, and as Ryan had mentioned to Newt when a bit drunk and therefore more willing to discuss his knowledge of Hell, this was a realm of petty punishments. Wet socks. A buzzing insect somewhere nearby. The sensation of something stuck in your teeth but being unable to get it out. A few ants at a time, but in unfortunate regions of your body. Gardening tools abruptly breaking. Candles that went out every few minutes. Rain starting up again right when you were far from shelter. _Perpetually ice cold ale._

(This was the one that reminded Newt that punishment was individualized and culture-specific, too. Newt quite liked his beer cold but pretended to be annoyed out of solidarity. Pulsifer had a precious stash he’d bartered for the last time he was able to find a pub, and it was kind of him to share.)

Then sometimes the demons “played their infernal games”. Pulsifer didn’t want to talk about that. Instead he told Newt about his own youth and what it was like to live in his era. He demanded Newt tell him as much “history” - as in what had happened to the world between Pulsifer’s death and Newt’s arrival - as he could, which was embarrassing because Newt hadn’t been the best student and he either had to make certain things up or admit to his ignorance. Newt told him about his life, too, though it was tricky to get him to understand the concept of a computer engineer. He gave up and told Pulsifer he repaired machines. Fortunately, Pulsifer blamed demonic meddling for Newt’s inability to repair Pulsifer’s sad rusty plough.

Right now Newt was helping Pulsifer attempt to dig a new well, as the last one had recently caved in without warning. Newt wasn’t skilled at manual labor, but unlike Pulsifer he didn’t seem to get tired at all, so he kept plodding along as instructed.

“Thou art quieter than usual, lad,” Pulsifer said, pausing to lean on his spade. “Be of some cheer. Our fate may seem grim, but nevertheless ‘tis not the end of days.”

“I would know if it was the end of days,” Newt muttered. His hands kept slipping on the handle of his own spade. He couldn’t tell if that was a Heck thing or merely his own clumsiness. The whole thing about helping avert the end the world was too big to put into words, even if he thought Pulsifer would believe him.

Along similar lines, Newt had said almost nothing about Anathema, only saying that he’d been courting a woman who’d helped him after he got into in a road accident. Mentioning that he was living and having sex with a witch, let alone one descended from Agnes Nutter, didn’t seem very...diplomatic. Pulsifer hadn’t said anything about his Witchfinding career, either. Out of shame, maybe? He probably hadn’t talked much about his wife and children because he missed them. Newt missed Anathema (and his mum, and his mates) so much it felt like a perpetual lump in his throat.

It was so dusty out here, dust on his clothes and his tongue, looking more like pictures of 1930’s Kansas than the green hills of England. Newt started singing to himself to pass the time.

“That one of your time’s songs?” Pulsifer asked.

“Sorry, I can stop.”

“No, but do sing louder.”

“Er…” But Newt could imagine how exciting hearing anything new at all could be for his ancestor, so he pushed aside his timidity and started from the beginning.

_The young man stands on the edge of his porch_  
_The days were short and the father was gone_  
_There was no one in the town and no one in the field_  
_This dusty barren land had given all it could yield_  
_I've been kicked off my land at the age of sixteen_  
_And I have no idea where else my heart could have been_  
_I placed all my trust at the foot of this hill_  
_And now I am sure my heart can never be still_  
_So collect your courage and collect your horse_  
_And pray you never feel this same kind of remorse_  
_Seal my heart and break my pride_  
_I've nowhere to stand and now nowhere to hide_  
_Align my heart, my body, my mind_  
_To face what I've done and do my time…_

Suddenly, Francesca appeared in front of Newt, causing him to squeak and nearly fall backwards. Pulsifer grabbed his arm and steadied him, silently brandishing the spade with the other hand as if that could be of any protection whatsoever.

“Cute.” Francesca casually waved a hand and both spades disappeared. “Newton, we’re going to be treating the Witchfinder Major to a spectacle that you needn’t be troubled by. I don’t think Ricky would want us to torture you mentally either. Feel free to sit it out if you want. Staying in the shack should be enough to keep you unnoticed. You have ten seconds to run there.”

“What?”

But she was gone. And the world started to shake and twist in a way that no earthquake on the mortal plane could have done.

“As the demonness said, thou need not take part in whatever torment this shall be,” Pulsifer said.

Newt was about to run, but his ancestor looked so frightened, and he’d been so much more affectionate and hospitable than Newt had been prepared for. Sure, Pulsifer had done some horrible things and clearly the Almighty didn’t think he deserve Heaven for that, but it was hard to abandon anyone this close to despair. Newt could keep him company this once.

“I needn’t, but I will,” Newt said.

The world spun and warped and finally snapped into a whole new setting. The pair were now standing among a crowd of people on a village green, everyone dressed in 1600’s clothes. A group of men were building a large pyre around a tall wooden stake in the ground.

Pulsifer either couldn’t move out of emotion or had been deliberately frozen in place. Everything had happened so quickly that Newt didn’t figure it out until the battered and bound woman was being dragged over to the pyre, and the crowd started shouting.

_BURN HER!_

“They’re burning my wife,” Pulsifer whispered.

_BURN HER! BURN HER!_

They cheered and jeered over her screams, and whether it was true to how it really would have been or not, Newt could smell charred flesh. He knew it was a bit of theatrics, that nobody was being killed, and he knew he wasn’t in a physical body. He squeezed his eyes hut, doubled over, and was sick anyway.

When he opened his eyes again, he was back at the cottage, crouched on the wooden floor with Pulsifer kneeling in front of him and carding a hand gently through his hair. “It was no worse than what I’ve done. Do I disgust thee? As well I should.”

Newt took a deep breath and shook his head. “I joined the Witchfinder Army too. I never ended up hurting anyone - I realized I was wrong before I’d hurt anyone - but it was like me saying I’m alright with that sort of thing. You were from a different time. I should have known better.”

“I ought to have known better as well,” Pulsifer said firmly. “I truly believed I was ridding Britain of evil, or else I would have been cast into the Pit. But I was proud, too, and never questioned my own judgment. In that folly I caused harm to the innocent. God was right to strike me down through Agnes.”

“See, see, this is _exactly_ what I’ve been talking about,” said another voice from outside, accompanied by blinding white light that pierced through all the cracks in the ramshackle walls. An exasperated male voice. “Those consigned to Limbo should not be capable of this profound degree of remorse. Ahhhhhhh, it's going to be an avalanche of paperwork.”

“Shhh,” said another voice, quiet but resonant. It wasn’t a harsh shushing, more of a reassuring noise.

“That’s all you ever say, dear.”

“Shhhh.”

Then there was a knock on the door, and a voice Newt knew said, “Newt, are you in here?”

Newt lurched to the door and flung it open, ignoring Pulsifer’s protests. Ryan Bergara was standing on the threshold, flanked by a pair of angels. Newt flung his arms around him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. I was running low on hope, Ryan.”

Ryan hugged back and patted him between the shoulder blades. “Hey, man, you wouldn’t have gotten into this situation if it wasn’t for me. I was the target. I’ll tell you all about it later. Real sorry it felt like a long time for you, clearly. It’s been less than a week upstairs.”

“Can I go home now?” Newt felt bad about leaving his ancestor to be alone and miserable again, but if that was divine justice he didn’t know what else he could do.

“Soon,” said the angel who’d spoken earlier. Newt stepped away from Ryan so he could get a better look. This angel was wearing a white suit with white necktie and gold cufflinks, though despite the menswear his face and long blond hair were more “beautiful” than “handsome”. His white loafers had a hint of heel to them. “Newton, I am Remiel, Set Over Those Who Rise. In other words, I am Heaven’s representative in Purgatory. My companion here is Duma, Angel of Silence. He is the one who drew my attention to the situation, and is here in his aspect as a righter of wrongs that have gone unspoken.”

Duma was very androgynous, dressed in loose, flowing white cloth with his blond hair cascading down to his waist. Both of them had vivid blue eyes, but Duma’s were a softer, warmer shade. He gave Newt a nod and a small smile.

Ryan continued, “It turns out the demon who tried to get me trapped down here out of revenge has been playing fast and loose with getting other people in Limbo who shouldn’t be here either. Apparently Hell’s admin gives incentives for keeping as many souls out of Purgatory as possible, and that turned into centuries of gaming the system.”

“Does that mean…” Newt gestured at Pulsifer, who was cautiously approaching the door.

“He should have been in Purgatory all this time,” Remiel said, grimacing. “Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultery, Heaven offers its apologies for the oversight.”

“I’m Heaven-bound?” Pulsifer asked softly.

Remiel pulled a clipboard and a fountain pen out of thin air and clicked his tongue while searching for the correct line. “In about twenty years, depending on your progress. It’s been reduced by a few centuries from the original sentence in light of what you’ve already suffered. Be warned that Purgatory is more painful than here.”

A cautious smile spread over Pulsifer’s face. “Never mind that. When shall I go thence?”

“After the demon Malacoda’s trial. We need both of you to stand witness.”

“I’ll be there too, don’t worry,” Ryan told Newt. “And Anathema’s gonna be there when you wake up in your body.”

“Good, good,” Newt said, distracted by Pulsifer weeping on his shoulder. He couldn’t blame him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Duma and Remiel get to be plot-relevant! Third time's the charm. I'm adding them to the tags to reflect this.
> 
> The song was "Dust Bowl Dance" by Mumford and Sons. I listened to it on repeat to help visualize the setting.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Future readers, this chapter was published on Easter 2020. Seemed appropriate.

_ Earlier, during Ryan’s three days of silence…_

Anathema appreciated what Ryan was doing to help, but she couldn’t just sit around and wait and do nothing. So she spent Monday researching and gathering ingredients for a spell that might allow her to communicate with Newt, using his possessed body as a conduit. Everyone was cautiously supportive. Shane said it probably wasn’t going to work, but invited her to try, and Ricky just shrugged. Her attempt on Tuesday resulted in Newt’s nose copiously bleeding and all the lightbulbs in Jen’s living room shattering. Aziraphale fixed the lights right away.

“Might be best to let the nosebleed stop naturally rather than make Ricky stronger from fixing it for him, since he’s shown a knack for feeding on other demonic energy,” Crowley said, miracling up a box of tissues and pressing it into Anathema’s hand to give to Ricky. None of the demons in their group could pass so much as a hand over the edge of the circle Aziraphale had set up, not even Crowley.

“Don’t you dare help me, A Zone of Fail.” Ricky grabbed the box the moment it was in reach and followed Anathema’s directions on nosebleed care - Newt got them like clockwork in dry weather - but by the time he’d staunched it, he’d gotten a major mess of blood all over his face and clothes. 

Up to this point, Anathema had avoided interacting with Ricky as much as possible, yet the sight in front of her was pitiful. And it was her fault. “Maybe you’d like to take a shower?”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley said, “I dunno, could make him less unpleasant to be around. In more ways than one. If you let him out, angel, I can supervise him like I’ve been doing for toilet breaks.” Shane had stressed the importance of Ricky always having eyes on him, because he’d once threatened to harm Ryan’s body while possessing it and might do something to Newt’s as a manipulation tactic. 

“You seeing him totally naked is different, though. I can’t do that to Newt,” Anathema said, with equal parts reluctance and firmness. “He can be very shy, and he’s in awe of both of you, and he’s been violated enough as it is. It needs to be me. I can take care of myself. ”

In the end, Aziraphale let Ricky out of the circle, Crowley led him to the bathroom and set up a guard post just outside, and Anathema fetched a change of Newt’s clothes from her luggage, then awkwardly followed Ricky in and closed the door behind her. She and Newt had showered together plenty of times. They’d also shared the bathroom while one person showered and the other brushed teeth or did makeup or whatever else needed doing, all part of comfortable domesticity, all a stark contrast to this parody. 

Ricky shed Newt’s clothes with no sign of embarrassment. “If you wanted to get a room with me, Ana, you didn’t have to resort to magic.”

She laughed grimly. “I thought you were only disgusting because you’ve stolen my boyfriend’s body, but it turns out you’re disgusting for much more mundane reasons, too. Also, it’s Anathema. Not a common name, but not that hard if you make an effort. Ah-NA-the-ma. Get in the shower.”

“Just trying to get a rise out of you,” Ricky said, sounding more sincere than she expected. He got in the shower, pulling the translucent curtain far enough across to keep water from getting everywhere, but still providing a gap where she could peek at him. A show of good faith. Possibly. Then he turned the water on. “Saying I stole his body is a bit like saying the Donner Party stole the mountain pass where they got trapped in the snow and started eating each other to survive.”

Anathema realized that as long as he kept talking, it kept her from falling into the illusion that this had all been a bad dream. She’d rather deal with continuous, low-grade dislike for Ricky than let the longing get any worse. Besides, there was a question she’d been curious about. “I heard demons weren’t allowed to kill children because very few children have sinned enough to deserve damnation yet.”

“Yeah.” Ricky adjusted the temperature and simply stood there for a moment, as blood and multiple days of sweat started rinsing off. 

Anathema hoped he understood how to use soap. Talking him through that would be far too awkward. “Then why’d you try to kill Ryan?”

Ricky grabbed Jen’s shower gel and casually started lathering up. “I asked Malacoda if I could try it, instead of the whole elaborate scheme of being his friend, and he said it probably wouldn’t work and I wouldn’t get any help if it went wrong, but I wouldn’t be punished for doing it successfully. Kids with special, heavenly destinies aren’t thought of as souls you don’t wanna harvest prematurely. They’re more like chess pieces.”

“I don’t like chess,” Anathema muttered, meaning it on more levels than one.

“Being a pawn’s a shitty deal.” Ricky turned away from her and hummed jazz tunes for the rest of the six minutes he spent washing. 

****

As pledged, Shane worked with Jen to keep up the charade that Ryan was being silent as a video challenge, speaking for Ryan, stopping him anytime he might slip, and easing his occasional frustration with praise or a pat on the shoulder. Their coworkers took it in stride with no more than gentle teasing.

On the third day of Ryan’s vow, the Worth It gang returned from Brazil. Steven Lim, who knew something paranormal was afoot but hadn’t been told what, agreed to film a segment where he and Ryan played basketball but for once only Steven could trash-talk, after which Ryan would go for a solitary session of wordless prayer in a soundproof recording booth. 

While he was doing all that, leaving Shane alone, Andrew stopped by his workstation. “You should go home early.”

Shane paused the Ruining History footage he was going over. “Don’t we have this whole deal where neither of us tells the other person what to do?” 

“It’s a recommendation, not an order.” Andrew lowered his voice. “Your eyes went black for a second. Not long enough for anyone else to notice. Yet.”

“Shit.” Erasing memories sucked and he didn’t want to do that again. He’d once accidentally removed Mark Celestino’s recollection of filming an entire episode instead wiping what Mark had seen through the camera lens for a single moment. 

“Stress?”

“Ricky being in town is...not good for my head,” Shane admitted. He didn’t want Andrew to think this would be an issue otherwise. 

Andrew’s mouth twisted in a flicker of sympathy, which a few years ago was way more than Shane would have ever believed he’d get from an active agent of Heaven. (Aziraphale felt sympathy for things like random people missing a bus and didn’t count.) “Make sense. I think taking a break will help. I’ll keep tabs on Ryan.”

Sara was in a meeting and Shane didn’t want to hang around at home with only a cat and his thoughts for company, so he sent a few quick texts to make alternate plans. Soon after that, he was in Jen’s living room. Aziraphale had invited Anathema to go to an antique book fair with him and Crowley had been left to mind the fort. Shane would have preferred not to be in Ricky’s presence at all, but he hadn’t had much time to hang out with Crowley lately, either

“I haven’t played a good Hnefatafl match since the Eighth Century,” Shane told Crowley after they’d each made their first move. Crowley had picked up a modern re-creation of a traditional Nordic set recently and had been delighted to find out that Shane knew the original rules that had been lost to human history. Shane had been on a lengthy assignment to make sure specific churches got looted and burned in exactly the way Hell wanted in order to destroy certain texts, and part of that had involved befriending some Norsemen who really liked playing board games to unwind on a cold night. 

“I got a taste for it in the hall of Ivar the Boneless.” Crowley paused, considering. “Now there’s an unfortunate moniker.”

“What’s that you're playing?” Ricky asked from his imprisonment circle. He was lounging on the sleeping bag Jen had given him, reading a tattered paperback detective novel. 

“It’s like Viking chess, and you can watch but no commentary, thank _you_.” Crowley said. “Go ahead, Shane.”

Unlike “regular” chess, which eventually overtook Hnefatafl in popularity, one player’s pieces were in the center and the other player’s were on the edges. Shane preferred being the one who was trying to get his king out to freedom. He moved a piece and murmured, “I’ve had a few flashbacks to the Ditch today. Maybe having the culprit so nearby, but in view, will be like exposure therapy.”

“As long as you don’t trigger yourself, for bloody Manchester’s sake,” Crowley said, likewise too quietly for Ricky to hear. “I never spent much time there - the Ditch, not Manchester - but I know it’s rather like if the Spanish Inquisition weren’t required to obey physics.”

“I heard you came up with the Spanish Inquisition.” Shane thought hard about the Monty Python sketch to avoid thinking about the sharp things (and the burning things, and the cold things, and the dark, dark, dark things).

Crowley’s word choice showed that he was thinking about the sketch too. “Everybody expected me to be responsible for how the Spanish Inquisition turned out, but the humans beat me to it. Made me feel ill, to be honest.” He made a thoughtful countermove.

“Didn’t stop you from taking the credit.” Shane realized that he’d made a mistake, and tried a more conservative move this time for damage control. 

“As if I was going to tell Beelzebub that in reality I got fuck-all done those decades.” They shared a chuckle at that, and played for several turns in companionable silence. 

Eventually, Shane said, “I could use your help faking more evidence of my imaginary brother Scott. When I first started being Shane Madej, I made the mistake of claiming I had one, in order to seem more relatable. Backed it up on Instagram with a fake beard and photoshop to make it look like we were in the same picture.”

Crowley full-on laughed at that. “I don’t get to shapeshift for as many ‘zany’ schemes as I’d like. How about we…”

That’s when Shane got a text alert from Ryan: _ANGEL ALLIES INCOMING!_

_Could have said Advancing and made it AAA!_ Shane fired back, knowing a joke was the best way to reassure Ryan, even if he was feeling anxious now. “Ryan says angel allies are on the way, so brace yourself.”

Ricky sat up, the book falling to the floor. “What did you say?”

Shane ignored him in favor of reading Ryan’s response. _SU,S._

Ah, good old, “Shut up, Shane.” It couldn’t be too bad, then. Especially if Ryan was composed enough to include punctuation. 

“I see.” Crowley’s shoulders straightened and he took he took out his phone, presumably to call Aziraphale. He didn’t have time to do that before the room filled with a flash of light so bright that Shane had to both close his eyes and cover them with both hands.

Then two angels were standing between them and Ricky, both with flowing blond curls, androgynous features, and blue eyes. One was dressed in a loose white toga sort of getup, the other in a all-white suit with a white necktie that had subtle gold threads woven in. 

“Fear a little bit, I suppose, but not much,” the suited angel told all three demons. “This is meant to be a peaceful, civil interaction. I am Remiel, Set Over Those Who Rise, Heaven’s Administer of Purgatory. This is my companion Duma, Angel of Silence. You may address us by our names, _sir_, or indeed _ma’am_, as long as the intent is respectful. The seer Ryan Steven Bergara has explained the situation, and we already knew the demon Crowley and Shemodai to be in exile from Hell and thus…”

“Off the board?” Crowley suggested, glancing at Shane’s king, which had almost reached freedom before they were interrupted.

Duma gave Crowley and Shane a soft smile and a small bow. Shane appreciated that enough to get to his feet and do a slight bow back. In the past he’d railed against how hoity-toity angels were and how they never even tried to meet anyone else halfway. Besides, this was Andrew’s friend. Crowley was still seated, maybe to make a deliberate point, but he sat more like a solid person and less like a liquidy lounge. 

“In some sense. We are not here to do you harm, only to collect the body of Newton Pulsifer and deal with the demon currently within it.” Remiel turned to Ricky and looked him up and down.

Ricky had made himself very small, as far away from the angels as he could go while still trapped. “What do you mean by ‘deal with’?”

“Ryan is on his way to Nichiel’s Earthly dwelling, where Nichiel can keep his mortal shell safe as we take his soul with us to the borders of Hell. This body needs to be under the same protection before we can extract you, Rictus. Cooperate and you’ll make it home in one piece.”

Ricky started panicking and babbling about how as a demon recently arrived from Hell, getting touched by two angels who’d come straight from Heaven could hurt a middle-tier demon like him, and how if he got home in one piece he wasn’t going to STAY in one piece. His boss was going to have him shredded to pieces and reformed over and over like grated cheese being melted and re-grated and this was unfair, this was so unfair. Hell had no mercy, sure, he wasn’t asking for that, but when he Fell he thought it’d have _justice_ for the fallen angels. Like he hadn’t been able to find in the Silver City. Like what he’d rebelled for. 

This was the first time Shane honestly felt kind of bad for him, especially with how relatable that last part was, and how raw and sincere he sounded by the end, when he wasn’t speaking English anymore. Newt’s throat couldn’t get all the sounds of the Dis dialect of Post-Angelic right. 

Then Duma held up a hand. Ricky went quiet. Not quiet like he’d been cut off, but like he naturally trailed off and calmed down. Duma’s influence had more applications than Shane had imagined. He looked at Remiel, who sounded embarrassed enough that his formal tone dropped a few pegs. “Sorry, I can have that effect on people.” He didn’t explain further. 

Duma looked at Shane and Crowley, then at the Hnefatafl game, then back at Ricky. He lightly touched Remiel’s wrist in a chaste yet arguably couple-like way, like a parent urging their spouse to hug their kid instead of yell at them. Remiel sighed. “I suppose. While this is not exactly protocol, those two aren’t exactly in opposition to our assignment, either...”

“We’re on the same side here,” Crowley said, finally standing up.

“I heard you have wielded that particular sentiment well in the past, Serpent,” Remiel commented wryly. “In any case, I think you two can be trusted to transport Rictus instead of us dragging him there panicking and screaming. We will meet you there.”

“Thank you,” Ricky said in a small voice. 

“This will not necessarily turn out as you expect,” Remiel told him. 

Crowley held up a hand. “We agree, but we need one of you to break the circle. It’s _completely_ demon-proof.”

Duma crouched down and drew a finger through one of the lines Aziraphale had drawn, and the entire thing disappeared. So did the angels.

Relief washed over Shane at the idea of Ricky being someone else’s problem soon. “Crowley, you’re sitting in the back and keeping an eye on him. Please.”

“Naturally.” Crowley produced a pair of handcuffs out of nowhere and snapped one on himself and the other on Ricky. He texted Aziraphale with his free hand while striding towards the door. “Come along now, Goldsworth, change of scenery!”

“Don’t be a dick and you can pick the music,” Shane offered, that new feeling of relief giving him space to not hate Ricky quite so much.

Unfortunately, when Ricky requested more jazz ten minutes later (Shane was starting to wonder if Ricky had influenced or maybe even had been the Axeman of New Orleans), Shane’s car stereo would not cooperate. 

_My my, at Waterloo Napoleon did surrender! Oh yeah, and I have met my destiny in quite a similar way. The history book on the shelf is always repeating itseeeeeeelf…_

Shane changed the station, and he got: _If you change your mind, I’m the first in line. Honey, I’m still free, take a chance on me…_

One more try, just to verify the situation: _I don’t want to talk about the things we’ve gone through, though it’s hurting me, now it’s history…_

Giving up, Shane said, “I’m not playing a prank on you, I swear. Sometimes my car turns everything into ABBA.”

Crowley sounded intrigued. “Does it? For my car, it’s Queen." 

“Trippy. Uh, I found out that I can temporarily fix it by having Sara drive the car for a few hours without me in it, like it resets the vibes.” Shane glanced at Crowley in the rearview mirror. “Why do you look horrified?”

“Imagining Aziraphale at the wheel of the Bentley. Not worth it. But don’t tell him.”

“My lips are sealed.” Shane tapped the steering wheel as he waited for a light to change. “Before he knew what I was but after he’d gotten a few rides from me, Ryan used to be under the impression that I just really loved the band. I started singing his favorite of their songs to him to cheer him up on long shoots on location.”

“I think I remember that,” Ricky said. “Go ahead and let your car be itself. There’s worse things to listen to on your way to the gallows.”

_WATERLOO! I WAS DEFEATED, YOU WON THE WAR!_ the singers declared cheerfully.

Ryan and Andrew met them in the parking lot. Andrew took custody of Ricky, and Ryan gave Shane an uncharacteristically tight hug.

“I don’t like that you’re getting involved with this kind of business again.” Shane said.

“I’ve got more impressive backup now,” Ryan said. “Apparently time is so different between Heaven, Hell, and here that the angels have already made all the arrangements with less than an hour passing by on Earth.”

“Keeping his body on the mortal plane is a great safety measure. He can’t be killed like Malacoda tried to do when he fetched you,” Andrew said. He returned the cuffs to Crowley, simply taking Ricky’s (well, Newt’s) hand with a firm grip. “I’ll be in touch.”

Shane watched them leave, mouth dry. 

Crowley cleared his throat. "C'mon, let's sing along to more ABBA on the way back and finish our game."

****

Before the other two angels arrived, Andrew made Ryan and Ricky take their shoes off and lie side-by-side on his bed, on top of the covers. The bed was big enough that they didn’t have to touch each other. 

“Is your cat going to come near me while I’m out?” Ryan asked. “I know you made him hypoallergenic, but I’m scared of him chewing on me.”

“He won’t chew on you. Besides, Anathema’s volunteered to look help after both bodies. It’ll be like you’re in a coma, but without a need for machines for maintenance.” Andrew had already drawn a few sigils around the bedroom using some glowing substance, and he resumed it once his guests were properly placed.

“How are you feeling?” Ryan asked.

“I’m surprised you care,” said Ricky. 

“Making conversation. Also, I don’t...I don’t like you, but our relationship isn’t straightforward. We were connected for a long time, and like, we made a decent team when we rescued Shane, even if you let me down for part of it. Don’t you agree?”

“I suppose that’s fair.” Ricky stared up at the ceiling. “I’d make a run for it right now, but the only thing worse than Malacoda being pissed off at me is Malacoda, Crowley, and no less than four angels being pissed off at me. Personally. When you’re a demon you have to assume that all angels and God are impersonally pissed off at you by default.”

“I’m not here to make light of your trauma, but Duma seems nice. He calmed me down after I freaked out when he manifested in the middle of the recording booth.”

“If you don’t say nothin’ at all, you can’t say anything that ain’t nice,” Ricky said, rolling his eyes. Something about how Duma had gentled him earlier made him more uncomfortable than being told to shut up, or even roughed up and gagged like Shemodai had considered out loud before little Jen said she didn’t want that in her home. A human being who knew what Ricky was and yet acted mercifully was odd but somewhat pleasant, even when it wasn’t exploitable. An angel being anything less than harsh was disconcerting.

“Close your eyes and count back from a hundred,” Andrew said.

“You make it sound like we’re getting surgery,” Ryan joked.

“That’s not a bad metaphor, except the part we’re cutting out will get reattached. It’s going to get very bright in here.”

Fuck, it got bright, searing through the fragile skin of Newton’s eyelids. Ricky didn’t open his eyes again until blessed darkness replaced it.

“You look like the real you,” Ryan said. They were now standing in front of an enormous pale gray building, a cube that could contain a city, with lots of little windows showing faint yellow light. Around them was a pine forest that stretched as far as Ricky could see, and above them was a starry sky. Every few seconds, he noticed what looked like either a faraway rocket or a reverse shooting star, starting low and rocketing up. 

The sign above the door made it clear where they were: PURGATORY: REGAIN HOPE, ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE.

“Neither of you are authorized to enter, but it’s an easy transfer point for me,” Remiel said, appearing next to Ryan. “Rictus, we need you to lead us to Malacoda’s office in Dis.”

“Again?” Ricky grumbled. 

“We’re on sanctioned business and have no need to take whatever detours you took Ryan on for stealth,” Remiel said. “Even if our sides are in lasting conflict, there are treaties that we all observe.”

“Sorry to interrupt, but what are those?” Ryan asked, pointing at another of the reverse shooting stars.

“Souls fully purged,” Remiel said. “Heaven and Hell aren’t truly a matter of up or down. How to explain...”

Ricky wanted to get this trip over with, and by this point he didn’t feel like being deferential. “It’s a visual metaphor to help the human mind conceptualize the locations until it gets used to thinking past the third dimension. We talked about it the first time he was in Hell.” 

“Good. Do you think you can show us the shortest way?”

“Do you really mean the shortest way? The shortest, shortest way?” Ricky was impressed with Remiel’s balls. Metaphorically. Angels and demons often didn’t bother with that sort of detailed anatomy. Too much effort.

“Yes. Duma, please carry Ryan. He will fare better in your care.”

Ryan tore his eyes away from the Rising souls. “What?”

Duma nodded, and started approaching Ryan in what looked deceptively like going in for a tentative hug.

Ricky spread his black wings, which enjoyed being stretched out after days of being scrunched into a human shell. The angels spread their white wings. Duma’s had a different pattern than Remiels, owl-style versus eagle-style. That made sense, given owls being able to fly silently. Ricky led the way. Duma ended up holding Ryan close to his chest while Ryan clung to him like a baby monkey, which was hilarious and almost made up for this whole litany of bullshit. It probably also helped Ryan not look too hard at the damned or the Pit. Ricky knew he hadn’t enjoyed seeing that on their first go-round. Everything was so far down and small that at least none of Ricky’s colleagues would see him right now, unless they were under the small minority cleared to be flying this high at any given time. 

(Air traffic control in Hell was a bitch. Literally, a bitch. She had a giant dog body, four dog heads, and eight pairs of bird and bat wings.)

The central tower of Dis had a landing pad near the top for distinguished air travelers. A moderately high-ranking admin demon named Choronzon, a tall magenta figure whose outfit was more punk, spiky, and mesh-y than Ricky remembered from their most recent encounter.

It was then that Ricky understood what Remiel had meant by this not going the way he had expected. He wasn’t being handed back to Malacoda for discipline after all. Because Choronzon was polite to the angels, and led them to Malacoda _in a holding cell_, thoroughly chained up, with his mouth and stinger both wrapped in some shiny material to neutralize them. He stared at Ryan and Ricky with pure venom in his eyes, so much that Ryan hid behind Duma.

“As stipulated in the section of the treaty governing the joint jurisdiction of Purgatory,” Remiel said, “I have brought three key witnesses for Malacoda’s trial for fraud, corruption, and possibly treason.”

“What?!” Ricky exclaimed, too delighted to remember propriety. 

Francesca stepped out of the shadows. “It seems Malacoda was cooking books and pulling strings to boost our Heck population, and a bunch of people are there who should have gone to Purg. Means he’s in so much trouble that you’re not anymore. They’re probably gonna give his job to his secretary Euryale, since she knows how things work around the department better than anyone else.”

“You’re my new best friend, Fran,” Ricky said, throwing his arms around her. He liked Euryale, too. Good choice.

One of her cranial praying mantises scurried from her head to his and gave his ear a friendly pinch. “I thought I already was your best friend.”

“It was a toss-up between you and Night-Night, but you’ve blown him out of the water. I’ve got so much to tell you. Did you keep Newton Pulsifer safe for me? I don’t want to owe that boy over there anymore.” 

“We did. I’m taking the angels to fetch him once they’re done with this.” 

“If marriage was a thing around these parts, I’d ask,” Ricky declared.

She laughed. “Just give me more vacation time from now on.”

****

Newt ended up between Ryan and Pulsifer in a witness seating area that was definitely not following standard geometry, given that there were hundreds of people in it yet they all somehow had a good view of the action. Also, the entire courtroom was made of polished granite in various shades of black, gray, and speckled white. There was a jury of middle-tier demons, but no defense other than high-ranking Dagon making sure Hell’s interests weren’t being infringed. Duma seemed to be hovering around to keep things from getting too rowdy or emotional. (Yes, he was actually hovering.) Malacoda was in a big cage at the front. Now that he’d seen that giant stinger, Newt was newly horrified that Shane had once taken a strike from that to save Ryan. Francesca was acting as stenographer on Hell’s behalf, as was a feminine angel named Klexos for Heaven’s records.

The judge, meanwhile, was Death. Newt hadn’t seen that Horseman in a physical incarnation since Tadfield Air Base. He wasn’t any less intimidating because he was holding a gavel rather than carrying a scythe.

“Ah, see, Death is neither of Heaven nor Hell,” Pulsifer mused when they first saw who it was. “Impartial.”

Remiel had offered to have Ryan and Newt be called to the stand first, but only a few more minutes would pass on Earth no matter how long the trial went, and Newt wanted to keep his ancestor company and see him safely off to where he should have been all this time. Meanwhile, Ryan was curious to see more of this unfold. Remiel prompted each witness to give a summary of the lives they’d lived versus what they’d suffered, Death would stop them when he’d heard enough, and Remiel would direct them to cross through an open portal to Purgatory. 

When Pulsifer was called up, Newt grabbed his arm on impulse. “Wait! Uh, Grandfather, I, I, I’m in love with Agnes Nutter’s last direct descendant and, and I’ll probably ask her to marry me? Probably? Actually, definitely.”

After a few surprised blinks, Pulsifer said, “Perhaps 'twas always meant to be so. May your union be blessed, as I was to have met thee." 

****

When Newt opened his eyes, Anathema kissed him soundly multiple times, then asked, “Will you marry me? I was going to wait until after your exams to ask, but I feel like this is a good time. Engagement rings are an outdated patriarchal tradition that supports the blood diamond industry and perpetuates stereotypes. But we could get matching rings with ethically sourced materials, before the wedding or during or after. If that’s something you want. Um. I missed you. My ancestor helped."

“Mine did too, strangely.” It was wonderful to hear his accent again, and see Newt’s inimitable body language and shy grin as he sat up and took her face in his hands. “I’ll explain later. Yes. I’ll marry you. As soon as you want and wherever you want.”

Anathema made an undignified happy noise and kissed him again, pulling him close. Time stopped for a moment.

Then...

“Congratulations,” Andrew said, “but Ryan’s still out. I can’t find a pulse. Thoughts? Ideas? _Please?_”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- In real life, Shane and Ryan went through a phase of psyching themselves up for a shoot by listening to ABBA, specifically the Mamma Mia! soundtrack. It was too cute for me not to include. 
> 
> \- According to Unsolved's "Almost 70th Episode", camera guy Mark Celestino can't remember filming the D.B. Cooper episode, even though he did. He doesn't seem too bothered by it.
> 
> \- _"We are kings...or queens...or angels."_ is a canonical quote from Remiel in reference to himself and Duma, even though both of them are referred to as he/him by other characters. The art shows them to have Ken doll anatomy, all smooth down there. Hence the route I've gone in my own portrayal. 
> 
> \- Stay safe, gentle reader. You are valuable and will get through this. (Just like Ryan will, as soon as our heroes figure out how.)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept the third person POV's limited to Ricky, Shane, Newt, and Anathema during this story, but for the ending I'm giving three other POV's a moment to shine.

Andrew knew he wasn’t the worst guardian angel ever, as over the millennia he’d heard many cautionary tales, but right now he felt pretty close to the bottom of the pile. 

“Is he dead?” Anathema asked, clinging to Newt but staring at Ryan.

“Not too dead,” Andrew muttered, putting his hands on Ryan’s chest and jolting his heart back into working. Though full Lazarus-style miracles required direct intervention from God, angels could bring very recently dead animals to life and could restore humans if true brain death hadn’t set in yet. But though Ryan started breathing again, and therefore his soul couldn’t have been totally cut loose, Andrew couldn’t feel the glow of it.

“When I was on my way back, I could hear Anathema talking to me,” Newt said. “Maybe that’ll help? Why would it be easier for me?”

“He’s…” Andrew cursed in the Ukranian he remembered from a long-ago assignment. Satisfyingly guttural and consonant-heavy. “He’s not the only human who’s survived seeing Hell. Dante, famously, now you, and a handful of others. But he’s been to Hell _twice_. I should have thought of that.”

“Remiel should have thought of it too,” Newt pointed out cautiously. 

“You have a point, but Ryan’s my responsibility.” Andrew bent low to his ear. “Ryan Steven Bergara, it isn’t your time yet, and you certainly don’t belong anywhere but Heaven when your time comes. You’re my charge, but you’re also my friend. You have a girlfriend to go home to. A company to start.”

“Andrew…” Anathema began.

Ignoring the rest of her speech - not to be rude, only because he was overwhelmed - Andrew switched to older, holier words to coax Ryan home. Nothing was working. 

Then he heard the faint beeping of a phone. He looked up to see that Anathema, still holding Newt’s hand but sitting apart from him now, was sending a text message. A reply dinged immediately. Anathema raised her eyebrows, but placed the phone on the floor and stepped back.

“What are you doing?” Andrew asked. 

Shane emerged from the phone in a cloud of atoms that quickly solidified. His hair was wild and his eyes were swallowed up in darkness. But the darkness wasn’t black, like Andrew had glimpsed before, more of a slate gray. He dropped to his knees next to the bed. “You can keep holding onto him if you want. Team effort.”

“What are you going to do?” Andrew asked.

“Some magic needs a boost from love,” Anathema said. “It doesn’t matter the kind, but it has to be deep. I couldn’t have called Agnes from Heaven to talk to me otherwise.”

Andrew’s hands were still on Ryan’s chest, so Shane put a hand on one of his shoulders and another on top of his head. He said brightly, “Hey, Ry-guy, it’s time to get up. We’ve got ghouls to hunt. You know what happens if you don’t get up on time for the shoot.”

The body twitched, but it felt like a reflex. No soul.

Shane started singing, and if Andrew hadn’t been so stressed, he would have laughed at the choice. “_Look at me now, will I ever learn? I don’t know how but I suddenly lose control. There’s a fire within my soul. Just one look and I can hear a bell ring. One more look and I forget everything. Mamma mia, here I go again, my my, how can I resist you? Mamma mia, does it show again, my my, just how I’ve missed you?”_

Newt and Anathema were gaping, and again, Andrew’s stress was keeping him from doing the same.

“YEEEEEEEEES, I’VE BEEN BROKENHEARTED! BLUE SINCE THE DAY WE PARTED! WHY WHY DID I EVER LET YOU GO?” Shane switched from belting to a normal speaking voice. “Seriously, next time I’m going to advise you to leave other people to rot.”

“You’re...such a....jackass sometimes,” Ryan said slowly, opening his eyes. 

“Uh, yeah, hello, demon,” Shane said, gesturing at his face. Ironically, his eyes had already returned to their illusion of humanity. 

Andrew could feel Ryan’s soul humming inside him again, and he suspected the two friends wanted to hug each other without him as third wheel. He got to his feet. “Welcome home, Ryan. We’ll debrief in a moment. I need some air.”

“Andrew?” Anathema sounded concerned about him, which was sweet. 

He went out to his apartment’s little balcony and closed the door behind him. Remiel was standing there, examining the pots of fresh herbs Andrew grew for his own cooking. Duma was perched on the railing, looking out on the city with interest. Andrew waved at him, but had to ask Remiel, “What was that? Did you know Ryan might be lost?”

“It’s part of my function to give tests to individuals, on occasion,” Remiel said, calmly.

“What was that supposed to accomplish? Making me feel panicky and insecure? I already do, way more often than I should, so there’s no need for that.”

Slipping his hands into the pockets of his suit trousers, Remiel said, “You are the illustrious guardian of a man who has now given Heaven two vital pieces of intelligence on the operations of our Adversary, and have nothing to complain about.”

_Gee, thanks._ That wasn’t a very angelic thing to say, so Andrew kept it unspoken. Maybe it showed in his expression, because Duma gave Remiel an eloquent stare until Remiel visibly wilted.

“Ah, me.” Remiel cleared his throat. “Nichiel, strictly between us: while it is not our place to speculate upon the ineffable, consider that you might not have been the one being tested.”

The gesture Duma made was a more graceful version of “I dunno”.

Remiel straightened his shirt cuffs. The cufflinks looked like little comets. “I will report that I observed adequate performance on your end. I have a tremendous amount of additional work to do all at once, and Michael is waiting for answers.” Then he vanished. Duma flipped around so he was sitting on the railing with his back to the emptiness instead. He took both Andrew’s hands and pressed his lips to his forehead. Then he vanished, too. 

After what Remiel had said, Andrew felt a strange sense of vicarious hope. Crowley seemed content as he was now, enjoying the messy human world he’d helped set in motion, with an equally content angel by his side. But the look on Shane’s face, sometimes, when he looked at Ryan and Sara, or even Jen and Steven? 

“Set Over Those Who _Rise_,” Andrew said to himself. He took a few more minutes to ponder that before he went back inside.

****

There was nothing like being yanked out of the netherworld by a badly sung rendition of “Mamma Mia” to clarify a guy’s priorities. 

Two days after Ryan came back from Hell (even if it was, like, a suburb of Hell rather than the big city) for the second time, he took Marielle on a double date with Shane and Sara. Beach, drinks, dinner, then back to Shane and Sara’s place for Netflix and dessert. They’d gone on plenty of double dates in the past, and Sara and Mari really enjoyed each other’s company in addition to Sara and Shane liking Mari in general. Critically for any girlfriend Ryan could keep, Mari liked Shane and supported him having a massive role in Ryan’s life. The question now was how much she’d accept knowing the rest about Shane. Hopefully, having Sara there would help her feel safe and accept that Shane wasn’t a threat, rather than think Ryan was under some kind of mind control. 

The actual moment came when they were all in the kitchen in a nice, homey atmosphere, with Shane dishing out slices of experimental blueberry-chipotle pie. There was a backup pie from the Pie Hole in case the experiment failed. 

“Hey, Mari?” Ryan said nervously. Saying this could mean losing her, but not saying it would be massively unfair to Shane and could mean losing her in the future anyway. 

Mari was busy dangling a string to amuse Obi. “Uh huh?” 

“Shane’s a...um...he’s...he’s a...supernatural being.”

She looked up, and was silent for long enough that Ryan started to die inside. Shane continued putting utensils on plates as if nothing was weird about this. Ryan hadn’t quite meant that when he told Shane to act casual. 

“He means it and it’s true,” Sara said, moving to stand between Shane and Mari, though it was unclear who that was meant to protect.

Mari raised her eyebrows. “Oh, sorry! I thought this was the sort of thing that everyone knew and nobody was allowed to talk about, like the fact that you two have an open relationship, or that Ryan really can see and hear ghosts better than most people can. I thought you knew I knew - it’s not like you’re great at hiding it - and I was trying to be polite. I didn’t realize you were freaking out about it so much.”

Sara started laughing. Ryan buried his face in his hands and groaned. Shane grinned ear-to-ear while patting his back and said, “There there, that wasn’t so bad.”

The pie, at least, was good.

****

“Hey, Steven, are you free right now?”

“Hi, Jen. I am for once. What’s up?”

“I invited Andrew to a surprise party - it’s not a surprise party for him - and I think he could use his emotional-support human.”

“What are you celebrating?”

“My friend and her boyfriend got engaged last week…”

“Nice!”

“Plus he isn’t demonically possessed anymore!”

Steven fumbled his words when agreeing to join them, but he sounded willing enough, just surprised. Jen had already gotten permission to tell him. It’d be annoying if everyone else at the party had to tiptoe around the topic. She hung up and returned to the dining room, where the table was groaning with all of Newt’s favorite foods that Postmates could provide on short notice and/or Aziraphale could subtly transfigure to be more authentic. 

“You didn’t have to do that.” Andrew was nursing a glass of Australian red wine while standing in a corner, the cheapest of the vintages he and Steven had tried on _Worth It_. He’d brought the bottle because he’d been forbidden from contributing anything but a drink. Everyone else had a plate of food, even Crowley, who had teamed up with Aziraphale to tell the others a funny anecdote about an encounter they’d had with each other in Constantinople.

“Invite Steven or place a bunch of food orders instead of letting you cook?” Jen asked, grabbing some food for herself and tucking her open bottle of Angry Orchard hard cider against her rib using her forearm. Keeping a quota of apple-based treats and beverages whenever this set of guests were around had become a bit of a running joke. Plus cider was apparently a rural English thing Newt got nostalgic about the way Ryan got nostalgic about crappy beer from his frat days.

Andrew perked up. “You invited Steven?”

“I haven’t seen Steven in ages, duh, you’ve been keeping him all to yourself.” She gave him a friendly mock-punch to a bicep that rivaled Ryan’s in swole. She wondered if Andrew actually went to a gym, or if he could use angel mojo to cheat. “I thought about inviting Marielle, but she only knows about Shane, not about the rest of you. Ryan checked.”

“I appreciate it staying that way for now,” Andrew said. 

“Hey, Jen, we saved you a spot,” Anathema announced, patting the space on the couch next to her. “Newt, you’re getting crumbs all over yourself.”

Newt blushed. “Sorry, I feel like I’ve been craving sausage rolls for a month.”

“Oh, let the boy gorge, he deserves it,” Aziraphale said, his words an entertaining contrast with his prim tone. 

“You could eat more neatly if you let go of Anathema’s hand, but I understand your priorities,” Jen said, sitting down and putting her bounty on the coffee table. 

“Did you get hungry down there?” Ryan asked quietly. “Because I didn’t.”

“I didn’t get hungry, but I was bored and frustrated quite a lot,” Newt said, also subdued.

Anathema squeezed Newt’s hand until he smiled again. “We want all of you to be part of the wedding. Andrew, we don’t know Steven well, but we’d be very happy for him to be your platonic plus-one if you want.”

Looking touched, Andrew raised his glass for a moment. “I’ll ask when he gets here. Are you going to get married in California, England, or somewhere else?”

“It’s really important to Newt’s family for him to get married in his ancestral village, so we’re going to compromise and get married in the village but have an open-air ceremony and reception rather than go in the church,”Anathema said. 

“Thank you,” Crowley and Shane chorused. Jen giggled.

“Anathema’s agreed to have a relatively ‘standard patriarchal relic’ of a ceremony instead of a neopagan handfasting that’s more Device-y, but only if…” Newt took a sip of cider. Then another sip. His eyes pleaded with Anathema.

“He’s nervous about asking Aziraphale to perform the ceremony. It seems right. Would you?” Anathema gave Aziraphale a tentative smile. 

Sara made a noise that sounded like “aaaWWWaawww.” Jen’s was similar but had more “eee”. 

“Really? Oh, if you - if you insist, if you really want me,” Aziraphale said.

“Wouldn’t be the first time, angel,” Crowley said cheerfully. “Though you’ll need to do actual paperwork for the government to recognize it, in this day and age. Impersonating a vicar won’t do anymore.”

“You’ve got to tell that story one day,” Jen said. 

“Get him drunk first,” Crowley said, and lowered his sunglasses just so he could wink. 

Newt coughed from emotion, a dose of windpipe booze, or both. “A friend of mine got licensed to officiate secular weddings, and she said it’s not hard.”

“That’ll be fun to watch from the audience,” Crowley mused.

“About that,” Anathema said, sounding more nervous than earlier. “My dad’s not been in the picture for a while. I’m descended from Agnes through my mother. If we’re going to do the traditional Anglocentric ceremony, would you be willing to give me away, Crowley?”

Everyone stared at Crowley as he went very pale and still. He hissed faintly, “Sssay that again?”

Anathema bit her lip. “You don’t have to. I hope I didn’t offend you.”

“He’s not offended,” Aziraphale said, putting an arm around him.

Crowley tilted his head. “But why me? Completing the ssset?”

“It’s more like how you’re already all of humanity’s odd black-sheep uncle who secretly loves his nieces and nephews,” Anathema said. “That part doesn’t seem so unusual. True, in this analogy you’re more of a great-uncle, with a few hundred thousand ‘greats’.”

“Most people don’t associate my most famous act with love,” Crowley said. 

Jen didn’t like how sad he sounded. “If I can jump in for a hot second, nobody except your basically-hubby here is around who was around back then, and he likes you a lot. The rest of us can only judge you by what you do now. What you’re like now. I think it’s a really sweet idea, and the only good reason you shouldn’t do it is if you don’t want to. Anathema knows what she wants.”

“Jen, want to be maid of honor?” Anathema asked, raising her glass.

“If I don’t have to wear a dress, I’m so in,” Jen said, beaming. She turned her attention to Crowley again. “Dude, don’t overthink it. You want to be involved in our short little lives, let us make you part of our short little lives.”

After another pause, Crowley said, “Yes, Anathema. I’d be glad to.”

“Maybe decide beforehand how you’re going to explain your relationship,” Sara piped up.

“One of my teachers in the past? I definitely learned a lot because of you,” Anathema said.

Crowley got up and slipped over to give her a hug. “Whatever you want to tell them, you may.”

“Newt, I hope you don’t want either of us to be Best Man, because that’s not going to be pretty,” Ryan said, gesturing at Shane and himself. Shane jokingly looked super offended. Ryan added, “Because we’re going to be ridiculously busy soon, filming a new season of Unsolved and working on a...a special project we’re still keeping on the DL.”

“I have to ask my best mate from school,” Newt reassured them. “You’re welcome to the stag do, though.”

“You mean a bachelor party?” Ryan lit up with glee.

“I’d say there’s not much chance for anything wild to happen around there, but given what we've been through, that would probably be tempting fate.” Newt gestured between himself and Ryan, who did one of his trademark wheezes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Shane singing "Mamma Mia" to himself while alone in the Winchester mansion.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-wS8NaRtiWs)
> 
> [Go to 1:00 to see a clip of Shane and Ryan belting out "Mamma Mia" together onstage.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ufwO_tg60Bc)
> 
> Thank you for reading, and especially for commenting! Am I done with this 'verse? Not even close.


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